


file it under x

by wtfmulder



Series: filing system [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/F, F/M, It's all smut, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 32,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: NSFW prompts & drabbles. I swore to myself I'd never do the whole "xxx" pun but I did.





	1. closet case

**Author's Note:**

> drabble; nc-17; msr; smut; season two-esque; prompt - “I did not mean for that to happen.”

They’re in a storage closet of all places, and it’s a tight fit, and it’s hot as hell, and it’s all her fault because she wasn’t supposed to go after him. But of course she did, and there’s nothing to do now that there are twenty other agents on the chase and he doesn’t even have enough room to reach for his gun.

The fact that she smells so good just makes him angrier. Dove soap and a hint of gunmetal. It’s a sexy kind of dangerous he isn’t accustomed to associating with her, mostly because he tries very hard to not associate her with anything sexy. But when he looks down at the top of her hair and notices how healthy and shiny it looks and how bad he wants to pull it till it hurts, he realizes he’s fucked. One and a half years without touching her or even really thinking about it (he couldn’t, he can’t), and he is suddenly flung into all the fantasies he might’ve had, if he had let himself. It turns out there are a lot of them. He’s already seen her mostly naked, but she hadn’t had her red hair, she’d been smaller and less… god, busty, she’d put on some weight and he loves it. His imagination is a strong, fine thing, and he’s able to fill in the spaces, so to speak, so well that he forgets the real thing is pressed right against him, her little body wiggling for some modicum of comfort in cramped quarters.

He’s got her in his lap on their little bench, it’s late at night and he’s told her something particularly devastating, something about leaving the Bureau or D.C. or the country altogether. And suddenly she’s pulling down her skirt and fuck, her innocent cotton panties, with a wet spot in the middle, and climbing on top of him and telling him he can’t leave. Sorry Mulder that’s the way it works. Ya can’t leave now. It’s cold so he wraps his trench coat around her and tries not to come immediately as she pulls his sticky cock out of his pants and sinks down around him. It’s a little scary how he wants to strangle her most of the time, but in this he imagines them at their most tender, and god, he’s so fucked.

Okay, they’re in her little Quantico office, he’s not supposed to be there but whatever, and she’s making fun of him for believing in… whatever, the Mongolian Death Worm, shit, that doesn’t matter, but they both end up kind of yelling. Perhaps very uncharacteristically Scully finds his inability to let something go very arousing, and she’s shoving him against her door and unbuttoning his pants. People are looking in through the glass windows, staring, and he loves it because yes, she is fucking Mrs. Spooky, she’s as weird and haunted as me, and he feels proud even as she’s she’s choking him and rubbing him roughly through his underwear…

And then she moans, it sounds very confused for a woman who initiated everything… his eyes snap open and he remembers himself, remembers where they are, realizes he’s been grinding his steely hard cock into her stomach for the better part of ten minutes.

He is going to fucking die. His soul withers with his erection as he ponders all the terrible directions this is about to go, like straight to HR, and her walking her cute little ass right out of his life for good. No more secret spy rendezvous at Watergate. No more of this, her following him into dangerous hostage situations because he’d gone in without backup and gotten lost in a hallway…

“Lift me up,” she orders suddenly. Oh, fuck. Okay. It’s barely manageable in this stupid closet but he gets her there, shoved into the corner with his dick pressed tight against the juncture between her legs. She’s so hot there, he swears he can feel it. Wishes there was enough room to open up her slacks and take inventory, take a taste, drag his fingers through her wet heat and bring them to his mouth.

He fucks her though their clothes, all the name brands and the kevlar, and tries with all his might to make it good for her. The situation just isn’t conducive to making a woman come. He does what he can, presses kisses into her hair, her forehead, the tip of her nose. Can’t reach her mouth like this, she’s too short. His fingers follow the edge of her vest, if he can slip them under maybe he can toy with her nipples… a dusky pink in his mind, like a freshly healed scar. He can’t get them in there, though. He settles for getting the angle right and listens to hear when he does. When she cries out and arches against him he thinks he’s found it, her sweet little clit, and he thinks about holding it between his fingers and making her cry.

Watching her face, he comes like that in their little closet. It’s such an unexpected rush of heat and torture and… affection, for her, for them, that the intensity makes him tear up a little and fear for his fucking sanity. And his prowess, because he’s not sure she followed him. Shit.

When he catches his breath he’s made aware of her hands stroking his back and neck. He can’t feel all of it, not through the vest. He regrets vehemently they hadn’t taken them off.

Instead of letting her slide to the floor, he tugs her up closer and she wraps her legs around his back. “I hadn’t meant for that to happen,” he says into her neck. Waiting for her response is like waiting for the sky to fall. It’s going to be beautiful or it’s going to end his life. Or both.

She laughs, or does the closest thing she knows how. Tension leaves his body that should’ve been drained during his monstrous orgasm.

“Well,” she says in the dark. The pounding of boots and a storm of yelling just outside almost drowns her out, but he listens closely. “I’m excited to see what happens when you plan something, then.”


	2. one more trip to the forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drabble; rated r; msr; fluff/smuttish; season of secret sex; cold coffee on the windowsill

There are no deer zombies in Itasca, Minnesota. The length of time it takes him to admit to this isn’t concerning. It wouldn’t be Mulder if he didn’t put his full heart into things – which, currently, she plays to her advantage.

The fire’s going – after this many years, they know better – it’s late, the stars are out. Its not as cold as the forecast warned them. Dragging their sleeping bags out of the cabin and onto the forest floor seemed like a quick way to shove a little romance into their lives when they so often went without. He had started from the bottom up, had her out of her jeans before the sleeping bags were rolled out. And then he went to work, refocusing all of that mental energy he’d built up for the case.

Their case notes go unfinished. There’s nothing to report. Their coffee goes cold on the windowsill, where they’d left their travel mugs. It’s actually a nice trip to the forest. A wonderful one, she muses, as his head rocks in her lap and she absentmindedly pulls the leaves out of her hair.


	3. troubled waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drabble; nc-17; smut & angst; msr; missing scene-Agua Mala; Mulder tries to convince Scully to check out the water monsters with him, but it’s really not about the water monsters.

They’ve already said and done enough that she wants to get out of the car and get whisked away by the hurricane, just to get him out of her head. For five minutes she’d like some damn peace. Five minutes without thinking about Mulder, feeling him thinking, feeling him trying to ascertain what she is thinking. It’s torture.

She especially wants to stop thinking about why she’d come out here with him. They’re on desk duty now they’ve got the files back; the mountain of paperwork and logistics strategizing they’re going to have to catch up on no when they get back makes her feel a little dizzy, like remembering suddenly you have a midterm you haven’t studied for the next morning. And it’s wet, and it’s dangerous, and Arthur Dales is a sad, demented little man.

But here they are, driving into the madness yet again. This time she is so close to not wanting to follow him it physically pains her. It’s never been like this. Even on those first cases, where they’d kept each other at a safe distance and hadn’t trusted each other and took low shots from their respective corners, he’d run off and she’d be compelled to go with him anywhere.

She considers very seriously having him do it. Turn the car back around, leave her to drink herself into a stupor with his latest father figure while he goes and does whatever the hell he wants to with his water creatures and old backstabbing girlfriends.

He notices, picks up on it immediately as it comes to her, and briefly loses his mind. They’re supposed to be out there looking for this thing, she’s conceded to him, she gave him her reluctant, pissy go-ahead, but he’s refusing to start the car.

“Are you okay?” He asks finally. It’s the most goddamn appalling thing he’s ever asked her. What he’s done with his Oxford education is the biggest X-File of them all.

“I’m fine,” she says. In her voice is a clear warning – do not push this, Mulder. You will not like the answers you seek. He still doesn’t start the car. She had been trying so – hard, to stop this from becoming a real argument. Okay, Mulder, lets go see what’s going on. But he seems to be gunning for one, reminding her yet again she can’t win.

“Are you being completely honest right now?” It’s the worst thing he could say. Or it would be if she wasn’t so totally sure, now, that he doesn’t really trust her to begin with. Of course he can’t let this go. Of course he can’t let her grieve and rebuild and heal the way she needs to. It has to be all him, all the time, at his pace at his beck and call. She opens her mouth to let him have it, her fingers yanking at the door handle.

And then he’s kissing her. No finesse, the rain water slick on their faces and making it awkward, the distance over the center console turning them into wrong angles. His tongue in her mouth is the only warm part of her body, disregarding the simmering heart building between her legs, filling the pit of her stomach.

Since Antartica they’ve done this a few times, kissed and petted and fooled around in cars, hotel rooms, and once, very thrillingly, an old abandoned phone box in Rachel, Nevada. It was fumbling, lovely, a natural continuation of their partnership, the chance to further know the one person who knew her and confounded her so deeply, naive, naive as hell and so regrettable it keeps her up at night.

She vowed to never let it happen again. To never let him touch her. She forgets this as his fingers wrestle with her jeans, unzips and unbuttons them. She lifts up to help him yank them down a little, and then his fingers are inside her and he’s sucking the water off her neck. “Scully,” he breathes hotly into her ear. He pulls out his fingers, uses her collected moisture to rub roughly at her clit, and he moans at the whimper she lets out. “Scully I…”

She shakes her head against his face, throwing water everywhere, and he smartly shuts up, keeps it all inside when she reaches over and works him out of his pants. The first time she’d seen his cock, long and flushed and so hard for her, she’d wanted to cry. She doesn’t want to see it now. She wants to get him off, so quickly and efficiently his head will spin. It works. He almost loses his concentration, the circles he’d been rubbing into her flesh turn to weak oblongs, until she’s pressing herself into his hand and he’s growling and tearing his lips away from her.

“Want to see you,” he breathes, pulling his hand out of her panties to start unzipping her soaking jacket. Together they get it unzipped and roll her sweater over her stomach, up under her arms, so her breasts incased in their nude bra are revealed to him. His moan is strangled in his throat as he ducks down to lap at the heat of her, sucking bruising kisses into the tops of her breasts and shoving her thighs apart with both of his hands.

With all the space and gear between them it’s difficult, but they manage. She comes while riding his hand, and it’s either weakened or strengthened by the force of her anger. She can’t tell. He comes on her belly as she bends over him, gasping dangerous things in her ear she certainly doesn’t believe anymore. He rubs the tip of his cock against her stomach gently, while the aftershocks fade, still murmuring, still trying to comb his fingers through her damp and tangled locks.

She pulls away. There’s a towel in the glovebox, a little quirk of his, some sci-fi throwback that’s made its way into every trip they’ve taken. At least it’s handy now. She throws it over to him when she’s cleaned herself up and he takes it with a trembling thank you. Her pants are a bitch to pull back up because how damp they are. Her sweater is cold and sticking wetly to her skin.

If he tries to speak, her posture stops him. He starts the car.


	4. holding water

In college I had minored in cultural anthropology with the understanding that you can’t help people without knowing them. And it’s helped immensely in the way I approach people, in the conversations I have; I know about the abortion ban in Nicaragua, schizophrenic plague in Ireland, forgotten native women, the exoticism of the East by the West and cross-cutting cleavage and holistic healing and the death of Disco.  
  
But I found myself in courses covering myth, ritualism and spirituality. Our very foundation for being, our retelling of the birth of our existence, of creatures on this earth that are known to only few but whose presence indicate death, life, love, freedom. It’s how I’ve come to understand other people, by the stories they create. By the stories that create them.   
  
Dana is a water sign, and it’s fitting that I come to her in the water. Mermaid, I think, but it’s too obvious. There are too many types of mermaids, many that I’d love for her to be, many I’m wary of. 

I settle on ashray. The water lover. Because I am hopeful, and because I am not. 

It’s not necessarily romantic. A motel pool, poorly lit by giant neon pink flamingos and almost steaming under the heat of the air. But she is there for a reason, and I must have followed her for a reason, because I am joining her in my clothes as she floats along in her black one piece. 

At the sight of her hair, maroon, combing over the water I’m overwhelmed by how much I adore her. How little it takes to learn a person when you love them almost immediately.   
  
“You’re swimming in your tank top, Monica,” she says without opening her eyes. I smile widely at her and paddle over, wondering how she knew. I place my fingers under her back. Light as a feather, stiff as a board. She giggles and writhes away, legs delving deep into the water.  
  
“Tickles,” she smiles up at me. I nod.  
  
I know she kisses first because I wouldn’t have gone for it. She makes me too nervous. I don’t remember what we were talking about; I wish I did, because we always have such interesting things to say, and I think I’m more interesting when I talk to her. Later I’ll remember this feeling as what it was like to have my first crush, and I’ll remember that it’s something you really only want to feel once. You’re not supposed to feel it twice. 

But – she kisses me. I watch her face as it comes, her eyes are closed and I’m desperately hoping it’s me she is seeing. She has to push my shoulders down to reach my lips and I help her, and it is _so good_ , better than I’d ever imagined, and she tastes mostly of chlorine and nothing else.   
  
In the water she is dexterous and clever, moves serpent like along the waves we create, silver and red like koi and getting me out of my clothes like a whirlpool. There is absolutely no one who’d be interested in seeing this. We’re unashamed, unafraid. I realize how much she likes my back as she strokes it, turns me around and presses me to the side of the pool. She cups my breast in one hand and plays with my nipple and I want her mouth, god, I want her mouth there, but the kisses she plants along my spine are too good to give up.   
  
And then her knee comes between my legs, opening me up to her. It’s so good we decided to start this in the water. The height difference would make this difficult. She opens me up and slips her hand over my belly and cups me, wholly, slipping two fingers inside of me with an ease that solves all of my suspicions. She’s very careful – her nails are kind of long – and she’s slow, and she gets so deep my breath leaves my body. She’s very gentle with my clit, using her thumb to rub at it slowly. I press into it to let her know she can go a little harder. God, does she, and when she sinks her teeth into my shoulder I’m pounding my fists against the tile and begging, begging, the water is moving around my thighs, she’s sucking on my skin and grinding her pussy against my hip, and then I’m _coming_ , I am seeing stars, I’m seeing the real stars, I’m seeing fake stars, I am seeing the future, and I love her, then, more deeply than I ever loved her before. 

I turn around and I kiss her, let her swallow my noises. Her kisses are dirtier than I expected; I always imagined a playful precision, like she’s trying to take me on and teach me something. But this is just hot. She just wants me. And that’s a million times better.   
  
Her bathing suit is harder to work around – how badly do I want to see her, touch her all over – but she’s scrambling to sit on the edge, kicking her legs out to make herself comfortable. And then she’s spreading them, just a little bit, grinning… I think it’s possible she’s been sent here to destroy me, and I am somehow okay with that.   
  
I swim between her legs. I can stand here comfortably, though she could not, and I lift her knees up so the angle is better. She pulls the crotch of her suit aside… oh. She smells so good. Her public hair is slick, sticking to her, I comb a little bit out of the way and lower my head to lick her wetness off of her thighs, to tease her opening with the tip of my tongue. She tosses her head back, a wild thing in bright lights.   
  
She’d been careful around my clitoris, so I take the hint – I smatter small kisses, kitten kisses, over her clit and lick downwards to fuck her with my tongue, letting my nose stimulate her there. She writhes against my face, her thighs close around my head. I feel enveloped by the ocean itself. The rest of her is cold, her cunt is warm, I want her, I want her, I want her. And then I have her, her hands in my hair, her juices in my mouth. While she’s coming I look up and watch her tugging at her nipple through the nylon; I am struck by the realization this isn’t enough for me. I thought it would be. It isn’t.  
  
When some comes down from her high, I’m pleased to be kissed by her, to feel her licking herself off of my tongue and sliding back into the water. We get dressed and I take her back to my motel room.

She is gone by the morning; the stagnant puddle from our drying clothes serving as the only reminder. It’s okay. Ashrays always melt back to water when you expose them to sunlight. 


	5. bad ideas in bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble; R; fluff, smut; Scully x Reyes; Prompt: “It’s called a prank.”

Dana Scully doesn’t back down from an argument, no matter the situation.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she sighs. The mussed head bobbing between her heads lifts and Monica’s smiling patiently, her pretty mouth slick with spit and, well, Scully. 

“It’s called a prank,” she says laughingly. The vibration makes Scully a little crazy. “April Fools is coming up.”

“Yeah – but _Skinner_? He’s not going to find it…” she trails off to watch Monica’s elegant hand travel over her stomach and caress the side of her aching breast. “He’s not going to find it funny.”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him laugh,” Monica admits. The conversation dims. Scully doesn’t want to think about Skinner when Monica is doing _that_  with her teeth. Her head lolls back to the pillow and if Monica gives her just a few more moments with that skillful, practiced tongue, she will rocket to –

That lovely brown head pops up again, sporting a furrowed brow and thoughtful frown. Scully’s going to kill her. “I’m just surprised John agreed to help.”

Oh – Christ. Scully doesn’t want to think about John, either. Maybe if she refuses to indulge in this silly conversation, Monica will use her fingers to… but no, Scully can’t let it go either. Her eyes slam shut.  
  
“Agent Doggett would do anything you asked him to, Agent Reyes. He’d probably even buy the tin-foil.”  
  
“Call me that again, Agent Scully.”  
  
“ _Special_ Agent Monica Reyes.”

No more talking. Not until they’re flushed and sated and relishing the scent of each other’s hair – and then it’s only a matter of minutes before they’re decidedly not talking, again.

(And Scully ends up being right, Skinner doesn’t find it funny. Maybe the glitter-glue was overkill.)


	6. le coeur noir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> drabble; rated r; dana scully/diana fowley; missing scene-Amor Fati; Diana Fowley isn’t really dead, and Dana Scully isn’t really sure what she’s doing.

“I’m sure you have questions,” she says, leaning back slowly against the counter. Steam rolls off of her, droplets of water cling to shoulders. It’s hard not to notice how very much of her there is, at all angles. Sometimes you need to look at a thing several different times, reposition it, to understand it looks better in a specific light. **  
**

She likes Diana better in the dark.

Is this how she had done it, all those years ago, gotten Mulder into her bed? A poorly lit motel room, a file falls to the floor. And so does her towel, and his eyes… Scully shivers.

Diana unwraps a towel from her hair and it falls; the color change is so slight you might miss it from the back, but the lighter shade changes her face completely. It’s softer, more open, and several layers of deceit are stripped from her features. Or maybe she just really, really hates Diana.

“Why me?” Scully asks, and it’s the least important question, and maybe the only one she has the guts to voice out loud.

“I don’t keep many acquaintances,” Diana replies. She studies the other agent curiously, slowly combing her fingers through her long hair. Then, like an afterthought: “I knew you’d do it.”

An odd thought crosses her – one she’ll later discount on gut instinct, with no concrete evidence to back it up. This is the first time Diana Fowley has looked at her, really looked at her. And she understands this in the most literal of terms. There’s nothing prosaic or particularly soul searching in Diana’s stare. It is only the physical act. Part of her aggression – the months spent in that special hell of loathing a person wholly, without reprieve – perhaps stemmed from this, from her ability to make Scully feel three feet tall with just a look. Or a lack of one.

“Mulder would’ve done it. He knows what it means to make the sacrifice you did.”   
  
Diana raises an eyebrow. Scully doesn’t watch her smooth lotion down her arms and legs, and she doesn’t try to pick up the lovely, expensive scent. “Mulder,” Diana tests it, draws it out with her tongue, smiles with slight pleasure at the way it makes Scully wince. She continues with her head tucked to her chest as she hikes up her towel a little to lotion up her thighs. “He’s not so forgiving as you’d think.”

It’s ridiculous she wants to protect him, even as she damns him straight to hell. “You underestimate him,” she says archly, stopping herself from crossing her arms. “I’m sure he had an inkling what you were up to. He just didn’t want to believe it.”  
  
Diana looks faintly amused. “Fox is well endowed, in many respects. I would not consider his insight into women as one of them.”  
  
What Scully would give to have Cancer Man on speed dial, so she may call him up and sic him on Diana right then and there. She doesn’t need to know about Mulder’s endowments. “He would’ve forgiven you. You saved his life.”   
  
Diana doesn’t roll her eyes, per se, but keeps them quite level, and the effect is just the same. “You underestimate him,” she says. It’s cold. Her voice, the room. A tingle starts at the base of Scully’s spine and travels as Diana’s body steps further into the solitary light of the room, that of the moon.  
  
This is something Scully never understood about women, how they’ll just undress in front of you like it’s no big deal. Locker rooms, girl scout trips, collegiate dormmates; Scully would be saying something, or flipping through a book, and all of the sudden a shirt lifts, blue jeans fall to the floor. She never looked. Not at the swell of a breast peeking out over the edge of a bra, or the sweet curve of a hip spilling into pretty, shapely legs, or leading up to smooth stomachs and a pinched waistline.  
  
Diana’s towel drops, but Scully can’t bring herself to look away. She’d made a few catty comments about cleavage and casual Friday and spinal stenosis. But the real thing is a bit more daunting, the way they hang and rise up just so, the surprising roundness of her brown nipples. Her eyes continue downward, to the her thick thighs, the dark thatch of hair between her legs. The colors are all faded, the lights are all off, and the woman before her isn’t really real, not according to the death certificate, the lie she’s entrusted Scully with.   
  
The older woman is looking at her again, and the lines on her face are back. Scully used to want to smack them off of her, still kind of wants to. She also wants to smooth them over with her fingers, mold her into the shape she took in the dark. A moment passes, Diana standing perfectly still. 

“We had so much in common, Fox and I.” It’s not wistful, not in the least. It is matter of fact, and Scully can’t bring herself to feel the customary anger at her flaunting. “I think you know that.”  
  
She can’t be actually sure. Diana Fowley does a lot of things Fox Mulder couldn’t ever bring himself to do. Love, and lie, and lie to the people he loves. Hurt them, on purpose, knowing that the result only benefits so little. But Scully nods. Diana sits next to her on the bed, not bothering with clothes or rewrapping the towel.  
  
“So much in common.” And then, she kisses her, fingers wrapped tight around her jaw. Their lips move together, and Diana’s fingers feel out the slope of her shoulders. It’s soothing. It stops her from bolting.

Scully never wondered what Diana would taste like, what she would kiss like. She’d imagined how she’d wear a black eye or what her teeth would look like scattered on the floor.   
  
Diana tastes like a spy, like she’ll be reporting this later. To who, Scully doesn’t know. Everyone Diana knows will forget she ever existed.

Diana kisses like it’s something she isn’t supposed to do. Like she isn’t supposed to kiss anyone. Maybe this is true.

Scully kisses back.


	7. scully punches a higher up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble; NC-17; MSR; Smut & Fluff; Season of Secret Sex; Mulder and Scully get thrown in a military prison.

No one hates being in jail more than Fox Mulder, who’d typically be foaming at the mouth and pounding at the bars right about now. But this is Scully’s fault, which makes all the difference, and now he can’t stop grinning at her like an idiot.  
  
“If you don’t stop your giggling, Mulder, I’m going to punch you too,” she threatens with closed eyes.  
  
“You punched the _Lieutenant Commander_ ,” he marvels dazedly. “You punched him _right in the face_.”

“I will cave your nose in like a saltine cracker.”  
  
“He was _crying_ , Scully.”  
  
“He was an _asshole,_  Mulder.”

“You were defending my honor.” He ignores the multitude of warning signs her tense body exudes and laces their fingers together. “And you know what?”

She sighs, finally resigning her self to a weekend of nothing but Mulder in this tiny little barracks cell. “What, Mulder?”  
  
“It really, really –” he traces the place where their fingers are joined with his other hand, “– Turns me on.”  
  
Her eyes snap open. She suddenly realizes they’re completely alone.   
  
***  
  
She doesn’t let him do too much because an M.P.O. could barge in on them at any second. But he’s always kind of liked it with their clothes on, anyway.  
  
The sparks of pain he elicits by sucking and licking at the tender parts of her bruised hand go straight to her clit, which he’s toying with, expertly, through her damp cotton panties. For a woman who’d been spitting and roaring with rage not only two hours ago, she certainly feels pretty tame right now. 

“You,” he mouths hotly into her ear, biting at the lobe just the way she likes it, “Are so, so bad, Scully.”  
  
“Mm’not,” she defends weakly. He shuts her up by yanking her underwear to the side and dragging his fingers through her wet heat.  
  
“Scully,” he admonishes. “ _I’ve_  never punched a Lieutenant Commander before, have I?”

With a few deliberate flicks of his thumb against her clit, she’s coming on his hand and opening her mouth in a silent scream. He rubs her through the aftershocks and brushes his smiling lips against her swollen knuckles.  
  
She climbs into his lap before she catches her breath, sporting a wicked little grin that causes his cock to surge underneath her.  
  
“That’s true, Mulder. But _I’ve_  never received oral sex in a military prison.” 


	8. be-wedded outlaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble; NC-17; Fluff & Smut; post-Season 9, on the run; Prompt - “You’re an idiot. I married an idiot.”

“You’re an idiot,” he says happily, licking a wide stripe down the jumping column of her throat. He pushes the straps of her white sundress over her shoulders and swoops down to nibble on her collarbone. “I married an idiot.”   
  
“We’re not actually married,” she reminds him, reaching back to unfasten her bra. This arches her back and makes her breasts brush up against him, eliciting a rumbled groan.

He ignores her by sliding his big hands under her dress to hook his thumbs into her cotton panties. They work together to ease them over her legs and it’s then decided that they’re not gonna even bother with the dress. The skirt bunches up around her waist and he pulls her tits out over the neckline to suck and rub his face against her nipples. “I can’t believe you married me. You’re an idiot,” he murmurs into her skin. 

“Not in any – oh _Mulder_  – church, or court of law.“ She yelps when he bites at her, writhing under his mouth. He soothes the ache by grinding the fleshy heel of his hand against her clitoris. 

“But Elvis knows, Scully,” he breathes into her ear. That first slide of him is going to haunt them both for years, it’s so good. They’re consummating their marriage in a dusty, wired town in northern Nevada, on a motel bed that’s probably seen many consummations just like theirs. “Elvis knows. That’s all that matters.”

And he kisses her the rest of the night, until nothing really matters. 


	9. scully hates stakeouts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "Mulder gets a blowjob?" It's that and literally nothing else.

They’ve managed to park in the only space that illuminates the inside of the car, just a little, just so the space under the steering wheel isn’t so dark. It was the only one left or they wouldn’t have picked it. It’s bad form for stakeouts.  
  
It is not, however, bad form for _this_.   
  
It gleams off of her hair and down the curved line of her back and threatens to blind him. She bends over the console with contortionist ease that make him a little nervous, and he asks her more than once if the stick shift is digging into her side. I’m fine, she assures him with her pouty lips dragging down the column of his dick. He forgets what he asked. 

In a haze of neon he can see every bit of what is happening, like a spotlight beaming down from the heavens to highlight the best thing that’s ever happened in his sad life. He can see the objectively pretty things, the breathtaking things, like how her eyelashes flutter along her cheekbones and the slope of her distinct nose and how her chin looks so fine and rounded in this light. And he can see the things that are perhaps more… subjectively beautiful, like her elegant fingers cupped around his sac and the base of his cock and the way her cheek budges out when he bumps against it.    
  
But her hair falls into her face and it obscures it all again. He tucks it back behind her hair and resumes his watch.   
  
Uh oh. She pops off of him and scowls into his lap, probably because if she tilts her head to look up at him she’ll get poked in the eye. “Watch the house, Mulder.”  
  
“He’s not going to show up,” he asserts. He fights the urge to push her head back down and instead pushes that lonely strand of hair back into its place, once again. And down she goes. His thighs tremble.   
  
Oh, shit. She takes him into her throat, slow at first like she’s working him in and then stops when her nose bumps nearly collides with his belly button through his dress shirt. She swallows around him. Her lips go flower bloom wide and he hears the tell-tale rustle of fabric that lets him know just how much she likes this: her thighs rubbing together in her slacks, desperate for friction and sticky and he almost closes his eyes at the thought of licking them clean. But then he wouldn’t be able to see her.   
  
She rubs her thumb at a spot on his balls that makes him want to convert to whatever deity she wants to believe in these days. She really had him thrown with that stuff about the chakras. He’ll buy it. Shit. He watches her. It looks so _easy_  going down but it couldn’t possibly be, her mouth is so small…  
  
“Mulder, the house,” she pulls away and demands, but it is throaty and _ruined_  by how deep she took him and how fast and it’s not as effective as usual. “I can feel you watching me.”  
  
“I told you this isn’t the place. He’s not going to be here,” he says, and a little desperately he adds: “Some researchers believe the psychic staring effect is an evolutionary advantage.”   
  
She narrows her eyes at him. If she rolls them he might come. Instead she lips around the tip and rubs her tongue against the underside and he is overwhelmed with heat and wonder and the filthy sound she makes when she sucks him all the way back in.  
  
The hair again. He tucks it back. Again. He tucks it back. She gags and moans and he feels it all, feels the squeeze at the back of her throat and the slippery poke of her clever tongue and how wet her mouth gets at the taste of him and better yet he _sees_  it, until he doesn’t, he pushes the hair back, she nuzzles her forehead against his hand and hollows her cheeks…  
  
His cell phone rings. He looks at it on the dashboard. She slips him out to look at it on the dashboard. She might as well have stabbed him. His cock twitches against his stomach like it’s seriously pissed off.  
  
“Answer it,” she tells him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Oh shit, her lipstick’s gone…  
  
“Mulder,” he says sadly upon answering. When Skinner identifies himself he lights up, turns to Scully and nods his head towards his lap. For a second she looks like she’s going to kill him but then she shrugs and begins her descent. Goddamn this woman hates stakeouts.   
  
Fuck you Skinner, this is for the Richard Gere thing. “Oh,” Mulder says into the phone. “Yeah.” Scully looks up at him with her _mouth_  on his _dick_  and her eyebrow raised like she’s asking a question and he’s probably never going to view that expression the same.   
  
“Mhm.” He sounds bored. He is very much not. Skinner is telling him great news and Scully’s sucking his balls. “You guys caught him?”  
  
Her head moves like it’s about to rip out of his lap, but he bucks, _very gently_ , so she knows not to leave. And then she doesn’t. She licks a stripe over his cock, takes it in her fist and peppers dirty little kisses all over him.   
  
This is nothing, Skinman, he thinks. This is nothing. You know how many times I heard grown men joking about the size of my flashlight in the urinals? He looks at Scully straight in the eyes. She loves him very much. He’s going to come all over her face if she doesn’t put her mouth back.  
  
He hangs up on Skinner with something like “I told you so, you just didn’t want to believe” and if he wanted to watch before he is downright _obsessed_  now, because sometimes Scully misses a little on purpose and to watch her lick it from the corner of her mouth is sort of like having his organs sucked from his body. The hair, fuck, the hair. He pushes it back. He comes until it feels like the world ends. She doesn’t miss any this time but it _does not matter_  because the satisfied little grin she gives him at the end of it makes his pelvis jerk like he’s about to stop breathing.   
  
She tucks him back into his pants and sits up straight in her seat, wincing at the knots in her back. Oh, Scully, I told you so too and you didn’t want to believe me. She lets him catch his breath and find his way back to the planet. He might still be up in space to this day.  
  
Then she turns to him and lets him know, quite seriously, “I really, really hate these stakeouts.


	10. sedate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rated r; fluff; MSR; secret sex; Got a prompt -- does Mulder ever fall asleep with Scully's breast in his mouth?

Oh, hello, he thinks, in sleepy surprise, when her hands begin tugging him into her room by his belt. He’s happy in that way he’s always happy when sex is in his future, but he’s also one flat surface away from losing consciousness. When she stands on the tips of her toes to kiss his jaw, the corner of his mouth, he suddenly doesn’t have the heart to tell her he just came over to cuddle.

She gets his hulking weight on the bed just in time, before his forward slouching takes them both out. His eyes close and he bites back a yawn when she starts to strip him like a candy bar. Her fingers tickle his sides when she pulls the undershirt over his head, and he actually chuckles in a crazy sort of way. She pulls back to raise her eyebrow and he shrugs. Okay.

When she whisks away her own clothes, he’s able to summon up more interest. Hey, Scully’s taking off her shirt. Cool. Hey, Scully spent the whole day running around in thong panties. Wonderful. She peels them off, wiggling her hips in a way that will reappear in his dreams. Like an eager tigress, moments before pouncing…

“Mulder? Are you okay?” His eyes snap open, and she’s frowning, concerned. She smooths her small hand through his hair, and he leans into it. “We can just go to bed.”

That thought is both heavenly and unbearable. He can’t keep his eyes open. A heaviness fills his limbs with the weight of another mystery unexplained, and the dust of three long days spent trekking miserably through Arizona sun and sand and desert barren methscapes. That he even wants sleep, actively seeks it out now is a victory in itself. A testament to the work in progress that is Fox Mulder. But… Scully’s naked… 

“Hmm,” he says intelligently, and though his joints protest mightily he pulls her in the bed beside him and curls his body around her until they’re tightly packed. She hums with pleasure when he works up the energy to lick a lazy path down her throat. He bums himself out at the realization his taste buds are weak. But he continues, closing his eyes when her fingers again tangle in his hair and pull him to exactly where she wants him. 

The cool motel sheets rub against his bare legs when his mouth finds her nipple, and her breasts are softer than anything. He nuzzles his nose into her skin and breathes in, letting the flat of his tongue press against her for a teasing moment. He takes his tongue back into his mouth and kisses the tip of her nipple, trails over to her other breast, and latches on with a soft suck. 

Her hands massage his scalp, and her voice hangs on in her nighttime lull, raspy, low, spoken for the guts and not the ear… it fills him, she strokes the hair at the base of his neck, he moans into her flesh and thinks about how long it took them to get here, to a place where he can knock on her door and be invited into her body. Her voice floats away with his thoughts, about her, about how a problem unsolved isn’t so bad when you’re rewarded anyway…

She understands he’s fallen asleep when his muscles slacken and his breathing goes deep and even. The need that consumed her when she saw him in her doorway, sexily rumpled with his loose tie and messy hair, dims somewhat with the affection that floods her and her own exhaustion. She pulls his mouth away from her chest very gently, arranging him so that her arm wraps around him in a half hug, and he sleeps nestled underneath it with his cheek pressed to her sternum.


	11. gallows talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nc-17; hard warning for breathplay; msr; smut; prompted for a breathplay fic. 
> 
> Breath play is sexy asphyxiation. Not up everyone's alley. But Clyde Bruckman lets us know it IS up Mulder's.

“Stand still,” she demands, and he does, startlingly, falls into the command with rare grace. She doesn’t comment when his eyes move, to her eyes, to her mouth, to her eyes, to her hands, to her mouth. Scully takes care of me, he thinks. Because it’s true. 

Her teeth worry her bottom lip before she sucks it into her mouth, sucks it till it’s slick and distracting. It works. He stares at it, pink and tender and very pretty. That one drawer in the filing cabinet, the one that never shuts right, digs against his back and he knows every file inside of it. Won’t be able to tell her now, if she asks.

Her hand slides over his chest. He barely notices it, not through his dress shirt and undershirt, not with the way her mouth looks. Her nails scratch him lightly, and her lips curl into a tiny smile. He dips down to kiss her. Her way of saying no, Mulder, is certainly creative, dangerously effective, you don’t play fair Scully. She cups his dick through his slacks, feels for every inch of him, and shakes her head. Okay. Head back against the filing cabinet. Maybe a little too hard. 

The sound of her hand rubbing on the woven fabric is just sinful. It’s forceful. She has every intention to make him come like this, make him pulse into her clever fingers and not her cunt, make him cry into the air and not her mouth. Like a teenager, like a toy, to make a point. He sees that plainly written in her eyes and wonders how he managed to lock her down. She doesn’t play fair but he doesn’t want fair. 

Unzip me, he asks her. She shakes her head. Take it out. She shakes her head. I’ll tell Skinner I spilled the soda in Taurus and get you off the hook. She shakes her head. I’ll get on my knees. You can sit in the chair. My mouth? You can have my mouth. She shakes her head. Scully. She shakes her head, cocks it. Rest her cheek on her shoulder as she drags her other hand up to caress his neck. He’s very sensitive there. Barely a real touch. Someone walks over his grave. 

Hmm. She carefully traces the head of his cock and doesn’t say anything when his hips roll a little to ask for more. Because Scully takes care of him. Most of the time. She strokes him into the suspense of a horror novel, a Whodunnit, is she going to do it? The violins shriek in his head when she lifts and returns and adds more pressure and takes it away. It’s coming from inside the house, he thinks a little desperately, and decides not to tell her that because she’ll start laughing and stop trying to kill him. They’re at that stage now, where she’ll laugh at his jokes and make him come with her hand in the middle of the work day. 

The fingers on his neck press down. Nothing new. Nothing hard. They’re just resting instead of gliding. But then he tells her, I’ll do it. I’ll crawl right under the desk and lick your pussy. I won’t even fit under the desk. And you can finish the report. Which is how they got here in the first place. He wouldn’t let her finish the damn report. Kept kissing her neck. Kept playing with her hair.

He tells her all that, and she shakes her head. Her hand moves so she’s cupping his throat. Her hand feels bigger than normal. Still he fucks himself against her touch, still he begs for release. She presses down.

He doesn’t cough. Not like when he does this on his own, with his fingers punching little frantic tattoos into his windpipe. He just gets weaker. Her thumb and forefinger are doing something… something… he loses the awareness that he has a stomach. He drops it somewhere. And he loses the awareness of most other things, too. He is happy. He smiles and she smiles back. He thrusts into her touch. She squeezes. Something hot builds in his chest, something hotter builds in his groin, and he feels like he’s floating, and he feels like he’s nowhere, and he feels like he’s tethered, and he feels like there isn’t a place on earth he’s not visiting right now.

He comes on a gasp, the furor of it sparking in his veins like split wire, and his cum spilling sticky and warm against his flesh. He seeks the warmth, how it consumes him, how his entire consciousness centers in his cock wherever she’s touching him. It’s only that. She lets go of his throat at the height of it and suddenly he knows everything all at once. She rubs him until he’s shaking. Until he’s whimpering and pulling away. Until he’s laughing nervously, Jesus Scully. And in his head he says, marry me?


	12. fair play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nc17; msr; smut; pegging; its pegging folks
> 
> I wrote this as an anon submission and I think it got deleted and I don't really care anymore so here is pegging.

Scully’s never had to really try to be hot. She just kind of is. There’s not a version of her that exists that he doesn’t find alluring, whether she’s shivering cold and covered in alien goo, or all wrapped up in her prim little suits, or comfy in his apartment, dressed down in jeans and an old college sweatshirt. She’s hot to him without even imagining what’s underneath it all. That’s love, and it’s one of the most wholesome things he’s ever felt.

But listen. Who could blame him, if there’s one version of her that kind of… kicks all the other Scully’s asses? Scully in a silk black nightie is a vision to behold, with her hair all tussled and the fabric pouring over her lovely body like a second skin. Scully with a gun in high heels holds more appeal than he’d care to admit. Scully in her church dress, putting her glasses on to read the hymnal book, bought him a ticket straight to hell.

Scully, bare-ass naked with a strap-on, though. That is probably his favorite. He still maintains it’s a wholesome feeling. He feels pretty fucking whole. 

“Good?” she asks him, and he shivers, nods his head into the pillow. The lubricant is still cold even when she tries to warm it up a little and he makes a stupid joke about warning a guy. She bites at his left ass cheek for the trouble.

She works the lube over his hole, and uses her other hand, also covered in lube, to stroke his cock when she pushes the first finger in. He lets out a crazed huff of laughter and moans out her name. She shushes him her smooth, calming tone and fingers him slowly, opening him up with a practiced ease that used to inspire a million inappropriate ‘let’s play doctor’ comments, but now just makes him dizzy and hot and desperately in love with her.

She sinks into him in small increments, letting him adjust to the size. This is not an every night thing though he’d probably sell his soul to make it be that way. His fingers clench around the bedspread when she starts to thrust harder, faster, instructing him to fuck the mattress while she holds onto his hips and drives her cock deeper inside of him.

“Motherfuc–” his voice catches on a sob and he’s lifting his hips up, pushing back – god, there it is. Okay. Okayokayokay. He told himself this was going to last longer this time but clearly that isn’t the case. When she hits that spot it’s like he’s going to come over and over and over again, every time she hits it, and when she stills, right when she knows she’s got it, and circles her hips to make her point, he’s coming all over the sheets with a muffled shout. 

When he’s done shaking and the world starts to make sense again, she’s pulling out of him and he’s pushing her onto her back. They both work the belt off of her hips and down her legs and he pushes his head between her thighs, licking and sucking at her clit and fucking her hard with his fingers until she’s crying out and tugging at his hair. He crawls up her body to kiss her, to lick the sweat from between her breasts and over the bumpy planes of her ribcage and somehow, without her really noticing, he steals another orgasm from her with his mouth around her nipple and his index finger working diligently over her sensitive flesh. 

Then there’s this Scully, sated Scully, who passes out on him as soon as she gets the go ahead. She’s also got a little something going on. He hopes to see this Scully every night for the rest of his life.


	13. come to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> msr; nc17; fluff; secret sex; sequel to sedate - prompter wanted Mulder apologizing for falling asleep during foreplay.

He always wakes her up so gently it catches her off guard. Touching her nose, rubbing her shoulder. It’s always been this way. It’s not like being woken up by anything else – the jolt of leaving a dream, not pleasant, not unpleasant, the calm that then fills her body.

Today he kisses her cheek, and she comes to with an ease that would astonish her mother. She’d always been the most difficult Scully child to whip into daytime.

“Hey,” he mumbles, sleep spent and throaty, brushing her hair out of her face. “I drooled on you.”

“It’s okay,” she whispers. 

“It’s a party foul. Also the other thing.” Before she can ask him what he’s talking about, he’s pressing another kiss to her cheek and disappearing under the blankets.

“Not my style to leave my woman wanting,” he reminds her moments later, voice muffled under the covers. His stubble scratches at her soft belly, then her inner thighs as he rubs his face between her legs and nips at an errant bruise with debatable origins.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Mulder,” she murmurs, but she spreads her legs, presses her toes to the back of his thigh. She pushes the blanket away so his mussed head pops out underneath it. “It was a long day.”

“It’s not you I’m sorry for.” He looks at her pointedly, spreading her open with his thumbs.  
He drags his tongue over her softened clit, slow, deliberate, watching her face as her eyes slip shut and her head falls back on the pillow. Her hands wrap around the back of his neck, not to pull him closer, but to feel him, to press her fingers into the muscle and and cup him and massage the heated skin that tenses and relaxes under her touch. He’s not teasing her, with his pace, he’s just doing that thing again. Waking her up. Enjoying every moment of it.

It’s early. She’s barely awake, hot to the touch but morning-numb where he’s licking her. He keeps his tongue on her, wetting her with his mouth, lapping away at his own saliva until she comes alive underneath him and she’s warm and slick with her own juices. Her thighs quiver in his grasp, and he squeezes them reassuringly.

Light pours in from the tattered blinds, too blinding for this time of day, hot and laserlike and ready to scorch them the moment they step outside. He hates the desert, yearns for a case that’s dark and damp and somewhere up North, a town of daylight-weary people scratching their heads. But a spot of light touches her hair, turns it neon and ephemeral, and he decides Arizona isn’t all that bad. She pulses and burns under his lips like sun shimmering over sand. 

With firm, calculated strokes of his long tongue, the work of a man who knows and loves and lives his trade, she seizes against the pillows and announces her release with a soft rush of breath that pounds in his ears. Her legs try to kick out, but he holds them down, soothing her through the waves with wet kisses to her labia and the rasp of his voice. Good morning, Scully.


	14. one bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MSR; Rain King missing scene; prompt -- Mulder making Scully come for the first time.

“This is cliche, isn’t it?” He whispers. “We’re being cliche.”   


“A cow fell through your window. I happen to think it’s rather original.”  
  
Hmm, he agrees into her neck. One hand maps her out, just feeling. Her belly is ticklish and warm, her breasts are actually kind of cold, and he likes the space between them, wants to bury his nose there. She jumps when he pinches her nipple and holds it between his fingers. 

Biomagnetism. That’s what brought him over to her side of the bed, all of of his excitable cells being excited by all of her excitable cells. That’s why he’s stuck to her back like glue and why she’s not pushing him away. He releases his her nipple and soothes it over. He redirects his path. Scully is full of magnets in all sorts of wonderful places.  
  
Down, down he goes, back over her belly, waiting for the quiver, fingers skimming over sensitive spots between her ribs, ghosting over hipbones and and just barely grazing under her waistband. He does it all blindly, keeping his eyes on her face.

“That’s…” she huffs out breath of laughter, just as his touch grows more insistent. Her curls are so soft. He pets them and kisses her shoulder. “That’s creepy, Mulder. The staring.”   


“You want me to stop?” he says, still staring. She watches the shape of his knuckles disappear and reappear underneath her pajamas, chews on her lip. Shakes her head once. He nods. He finds her clit with his thumb and notes the way her eyelashes flutter. He’s never seen her do that before.  
  
Like a vice, around his fingers, hot and slick as burning oil and he brings her to a simmer. She’s noisy and twitchy in his arms, breathless, giggly and confused and desperate for kisses, keeps twisting her face to kiss him. He keeps his eyes open, and she clings onto his arm as she comes, tightening and relaxing her grip as the waves wash over her.

It’s totally cliche, but they’re never allowed to be cliche. It’s fine. He waits for her to come down so they can do other things they’re never allowed to do.   



	15. contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder/Senator Matheson; missing scene for Little Green Men

“What am I looking for?” Mulder asks, feeling a rush of excited energy flow through him. His mind races with all the possibilities. He’ll book his ticket through the pay phone in the lobby. He doesn’t need to pack; he’s got a bag in the car. Does he even need to stop at his place, then?

“Contact,” the Senator says. He watches as Mulder’s fingers fumble to fold up the slip of paper, standing quietly behind him. He steps a bit closer and Mulder freezes. “Possibly the best evidence you could wish to have.”

“Senator Matheson…” The older man ignores him by placing his hands on Mulder’s shoulders, sliding them over corded, tense muscles. 

“We’ll get there,” Matheson assures. “You’ve done a good job.” And his hands begin to work, slipping down Mulder’s firm chest, catching on buttons and resting on the warmth of his belly.

“You’re not disappointed,” Mulder says slowly, silently biting his lip and holding back a groan when long fingers begin to stroke him him over his dress shirt. The Senator’s breath is hot on his neck. Mulder resists the urge to lean back.

“No one is immune to bureaucracy, Fox,” Matheson replies. He expertly whips open Mulder’s belt, unbuttons his pants and undoes the fly. Mulder flexes his stomach, looks down to watch his cock being pulled out of his underwear and stroked to full hardness.

“What do you think they’re trying to say, Fox?” He asks in a steady voice, resting his chin on the agent’s shoulder. “If they have been listening to it all this time. Do you think they’re impressed?” Mulder whimpers and presses insistently into his firm grip. The skin of his cock is velvety hot, smooth, softer than Mulder tries to appear to be. “Be quiet. I told you they may be listening.”

Mulder chokes at that, leans into the broad, hard expanse of the Senator’s chest, and feels a tingle at the base of his spine and a tightening in his sac. Fuck. God. The Senator smells like oak and brandy and Bach plays on and on in the background. We want to listen, he thinks. We will listen. He won’t stop by his apartment. In a burst of heat and anticipation he comes into the Senator’s fist, the recording starting again behind them.


	16. in arcady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> r; MSR; alternate ending to the bedroom scene in Arcadia; prompt -- Mulder's reaction to the face mask and robe cause Scully to inflict a little punishment.

“Compulsive neatness, or a lack thereof. Have you noticed how everybody around here is obsessed with the neighborhood rules and the CC&Rs?” He pauses his whole tirade to lift his head and point at her, casually smug. “You know what? You fit in really well here.”  


Her face burns. Metaphorically and literally. It’s the peppermint oil and all the fury. “And you… don’t.” 

He rearranges himself on the pillows, like he’s making himself quite at home. And something in her just… snaps. Mulder’s profiling skills are covered in dust and snide subjectivity, and she refuses to be his criminal. 

She nods at him once before grabbing her bag and hauling it with her into the bathroom. “Scully?” he calls out, confused.

“Just a minute, Mulder,” she says in a perfectly even voice.  
  
Neighborhood rules? CC & R’s? _Fuck you_ , Mulder – where is it? Hadn’t she packed it? It’s her most comfortable pair but it’s also her sexi – there it is. Mint Julep swirls down the drain and her face glows and tingles. She sheds her tattered robe, her hand-me-down pajamas. Off with the headband; she combs her fingers through her hair, fluffs it out in the mirror, shames herself for caring so much. He’s been such a jerk lately, with that whole thing with that _woman_ , and then Florida, what was that? She just – she tucks herself into her new outfit and strides into the room before she can begin to feel ridiculous.  
  
“I got a, uh, surefire way of testing my – I, uh, gg…”  
  
In little pink satin panties and an even littler pink satin bra, Scully climbs up on the bed next to six feet of egomaniacal jackass, and wonders how many seconds she has until the coward bolts. Last time she tried anything he flew into the woods in under three minutes, and she’d been fully clothed. She licks her lips and smiles at him as she inches closer, resting her head on her elbow and letting one palm travel teasingly down her stomach.  
  
“C’mon Rob. We’re married now.” She plays up the husk in her voice, trying not to laugh at his face. His _face._ Fox Mulder doesn’t have a lot of faces, but this is one she’ll remember for the rest of her life. The truth is there are many rules that she could break that he would never dare to, and it’s time for him to prove how much of a stickler he really –

“Scully,” he breathes suddenly, and it is so full of wonder and sweetness it stops her in her tracks. Her hand stops moving. The smile falls from her face and her heart falls to her belly when his eyes caress her body and then his fingers, tentatively, as he reaches over to cup her cheek.  
  
She didn’t… she didn’t expect him to…  
  
Then he scoots over and kisses her. Kisses her before she realizes he’s trying to kiss her. He holds his face in his hand and sucks in a shaky gasp and leans in to kiss her, really, really kiss her.  
  
She tears up behind closed eyelids, and feels perfectly stupid for doing so. She kisses him back.  
  
There’s a tension in her body she hadn’t known she’d been carrying – it leaves her in a rush, as her body melts into his and he is _shaking_ under her touch, when her arms wrap around him and her hands slide under his shirt. His mouth leaves hers only to come back more insistent, more desperate, and he’s hauling her up and over so that she’s straddling him. “Scully,” he chokes out again, when she pulls herself up to strip off his shirt. And again, “Scully,” when she sits up on his chest and brings his hands up to her breasts. He stares at them  while they cup and stroke her through the satin. He’s silent as a Cistercian while he commits her to memory, and has to be reminded to touch her harder, be bolder. It doesn’t bother her. When she reaches behind to unhook her bra she lets it fall on his face, just to see his reaction. He doesn’t move for long seconds. He solemnly watches her with his nose buried in pink.  
  
And he lets her explore, too, closes his eyes and rests back on the headboard as she touches his chest and traces all the hard lines of him, all the little dips. Feels for all the places he’s soft or hard or so _sensitive_ , gloriously so, the way his breath hitches when she tweaks his tight nipples and licks a spot under his belly button. She mouths wetly at the bulge in his jeans until the fabric is damp with her saliva and his hand is cramping in her hair.  
  
Then she slips out of her panties lest he forgets to, and he finds it in himself to roll them over, to let his lips take over in all the ways his brain has failed him. “You could’ve had me in the PJ’s and the goop, you know,” he laughs between her thighs. It’s a desperate laugh. It sounds like it hurts coming out of him. 

“I wanted to shock you,” she admits, and he shocks her with that first stroke of his whipsmart tongue.  
  
He gets his shoes and jeans and underwear off (“No sneakers in bed, Mulder.” “Compulsive. Neatness.”), and she’s slightly chastised by how much pleasure she’d taken from his earlier shyness. She gets it now. This is – this is Mulder. She tears up again even as she jerks him off and whispers a whole lot of nonsense into his ear. This is Mulder, with his hard, wiry body and his too soft heart. This is Mulder, she thinks over and over again when she pushes him down on the mattress and takes him, worshipful and a little cross-eyed, into her wanting body.  
  
Hey may be a jerk, but he’s her jerk. And god. He makes breaking the rules feel. So. Good. 


	17. mulder looks down scully's shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MSR; NC-17; prompt -- office flirting to smut

“Mulder!”

He doesn’t even try to contain his grin. “Scully?” He replies, moving closer to her. The file she’s reading from pokes his chest.

“I know what you’re doing.”

He grins wider, moves in closer. Even as she backs up and hits the filing cabinet, the envelope caves under the pressure. He towers over her and folds himself into her space. “What am I doing?”

“You are – quite unabashedly, might I add – shirking your responsibilities as a federal agent –”

“My responsibilities…”

“Disregarding all protocol–”

“Protocol…”

“Acting in a manner most unprofessional–”

“Unprofessional…”

“You’re staring down my shirt, Mulder, and you’ve barely kept yourself from drooling.”

With each word he’s pressed himself closer and pinned her with a hand on each side of her head. They aren’t close enough to touch, but… 

“That can’t be right.” He shakes his head. One hand rubs over her shoulder and finds the vee of her collar, just resting. “Am I doing it now?”

“You most certainly are.”

“I’m so sorry, Scully. How about… now?” He unbuttons one button and bites his lip. Without that button he had an eyeful, yet having it undone makes all the difference. “I guess you caught me. Do I need to confess?”

“Yes,” she breathes out. She pulls her hands up so the backs of them brush against his stomach, right before she starts fumbling with the next button. “If you’re guilty of something.”

“I confess…” he pauses to watch as a pale blue bow reveals itself to him, the insides of the silky cups. It’s an innocent choice. Pairs very well with the purplish spots marring the skin popping out of them. “That if you’ve only just caught me…”

“Go on, Agent Mulder,” she demands. She pulls on the flaps of her shirt and shimmies, just a little, so that her entire chest is revealed and offered to him. 

“Then I must be very good,” he mumbles, burying his face between her breasts. Trailing his tongue under the wire and tugging her shirt out of her pants, he adds: “You and these fucking v-necks. For years, Scully. YEARS.” Together they slip the shirt over her arms and he unhooks the bra, immediately pulling a nipple into his mouth as her hands hold his head to her. 

“Well, Mulder…” she gasps at the flicker of his tongue, and at his teeth gently closing down. “I have a confession of my own, then.”

“Mmm?” He switches breasts, groaning when she pushes herself into his mouth.

“You’re not very good.” She whimpers when he bites down and yanks her closer with a hand on her ass. “And I – oh _god_. I _love_ these v-necks.”


	18. shut up, scully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pg-13; msr; prompt -- does Scully know she's loud during sex? Does Mulder tease her about it?

“That was great,” he grunts out into her hair, reaching down to do up his fly. He politely holds up the flaps of his trench coat while she fixes her bra and pulls down her sweater. “But you’re gonna get us caught one day.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She pushes him off to inspect her clothing under the shaky light of the stairwell, her heels echoing over the sounds of parking cars and ringing elevators. 

“Scully,” he says, as an answer. She passes her own inspection; there’s not a wrinkle to be found on her. Mulder, on the other hand, will be tucking his chin to his chest the rest of the day to hide her lipstick on his collar, and the trench will be sent off to the dry cleaners for the third time this pay period. He now remembers why he stopped wearing them. They’re a bitch to maintain.

“If I recall, you were the one so… stimulated by an innocent conversation on Ganzfeld experiments you decided to ambush me in a federal parking garage.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Well, then what?” She demands, combing her fingers through her hair. At least he has that going for him. She’s screwed until she finds a bathroom and a hairdryer. She might need to just cut it all off. 

He stares at her blankly. Does she not know? She has to know. How does she not know?

“Oh, Mulder,” he says, in a voice only slightly higher than his own. At her lack of a response, he continues, going higher. “Don’t stop, Mulder. _Yes_.” She ignores him still. He goes even higher, louder, crowds her back up against the wall as she reapplies her lipstick. “Fuck me, _Fox_ –”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she interrupts, her voice tight. He misses the slightest upturned quirk of her lips when she checks herself out in her pocket mirror. 


	19. all bets are gotten off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder going down on Scully in the office.

“You were right,” Mulder says, fiddling with papers on his desk and kicking out the rolling chair. “Sit,” he nods his head to it and continues to clean house.

“I… was,” Scully replies, cautious and flat. She stares at the back of his head in fear that something will grow out of it before taking her seat, slowly, backing away to give him more room to dart from cabinet to cabinet. The wheels whine on the linoleum. He shuffles through files and turns to face her when he’s satisfied with the organization, determined in his blank way.

“I’m conceding,” he continues tunelessly. He’s striding up to her, then nudging the chair a few more feet. “There are no self-sacrificing goats in rural Kansas.” She gets the idea when he wedges himself between her and the desk, dropping to his knees. “Mulder, no–” she says, just as he finishes with, “They were just dumb goats. Exceptionally dumb goats,” and works at unbuttoning her slacks.

“This does not fall within the terms of our wager,“ she chides, even as she lifts her hips to help him remove her clothing. He halts the process with a firm hand over her belly to lean in and lick her slowly through her cotton boyshorts. So wet, so fast, but she no longer marvels at this. Then he’s peeling them down her legs, angling her towards his face by pushing up on the bottoms of her thighs, and diving right in.

“You are so bad at giving gifts,” she whines petulantly, rocking into the animal brilliance of his mouth. Mulder’s life has thus far been a series of difficult choices, not unlike her own; whether he wants rough and slow, wants to drive her crazy with his lack of direction, like always, wants to make a mess and make her messy as a result, or whether he’s got a plan, something precise, her own profile typed into her flesh with slicing exactitude, his tongue sharp like his mind, her cunt at his mercy. 

But this is still breaking the rules.

“You’re taking me out to lunch or something,” she grumbles, letting her head drop back on the chair. He mumbles something unimportant and pulls her closer still; no patterns tonight, then. His face is shiny wet and she can’t follow any distinct M.O. But all of it makes her twitch, when he’s biting her thighs or pointing his tongue to play tag with her clit, looking up at her with eyes that both seek approval and tell her he’s already received it loud and clear. They’re teasing, now, light, puppy-wide and clear of their characteristic storm. “Can’t just… give presents… you want and…” he’s fucking great at this, she can’t deny that. “Selfish…”

He lifts up to grin at her, dazed and, oh, obscene. “You’re right, Scully. I guess I am being rather selfish.” She rolls her eyes and pulls his head back down.


	20. disclaimer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: MSR headcanon that would make Chris Carter cry. Crack, folks.

There’s an antimatter space buzzard cawing from the television and the lights are still on and the door is double locked, triple locked, their phones are off and their guns are on the nightstand. Their field journals are tucked safely in their suitcases. Her pants are hanging off the edge of the bed; her blouse is bunched up in the ball of one fist, pulled up so she can look at his face like this, his mouth working quick as his lovely mind. Through the red blur of her hair she can tell he’s grinning up at her, into her, as he drags his tongue between her lips to press lightly against her clit, laughing when her thighs tremble in his hands. And then he’s dragging it back down and working his jaw to suck on her like like the flesh of too-ripe fruit straight from its rind, too greedy, too eager in his technique it brings her closer than he wants. But he doesn’t stop – well, just once he does, to loosen his tie and lay his head back on the pillows, and then he wiggles his eyebrows and asks her to please be seated, to which she rolls her eyes and shuts him up.

From the way she’s forgetting to give him air – Scully rarely ever forgets anything, now does she – and the sounds she’s making, surprised and almost angry at how good he’s making her feel – how dare he, anyway – from the clench of her muscles and the wet of her body he knows he’s got her, right there, on his mouth and pretty much every other part of his face, when, damn it, she’s –

“Did you hear that?” She’s asking, sounding angrier still. But she’s petting his hair. It’s all good.

“It’s nothing,” he replies automatically, kissing her sweet and dumb and again, quite forgetful. But another moment and she lifts up and spreads her legs. Which, Jesus, Scully.

“My thighs were around your ears. Listen now.” She’s pulling away and he’s groaning loudly, tugging her back. “It sounds like… crying. I think there’s someone crying outsiiiiide oh, god.” 

And ladies and gentlemen, boy does she forget. If the crying continues, if it segues, seamlessly into gasping, heartsick sobs as Mulder flips Scully over onto her knees and shows her how to earn a perfect score on the FBI obstacle course, if a shock of white hair, perhaps, is visible, five odd yards away from the blinds they FORGOT to close, well. They forget to care.


	21. cake for vagabonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MSR. Prompt -- birthday sex.

Three Hostess apple pies because  _I missed the last two, Mulder_ , and they heated them over the tipi fire after the sun bade farewell to the party, to their sticky harvest mouths and their bodies rustling through the leaves. 

“I’m so happy you’re here,” she sighed into his lips, her chilled hands skimming underneath his sweater. She took his pebbled nipples between her fingers and licked at his tongue while the wind whistled in the tree tops above them and his cock filled for her.

Too cold to feel skin, he angled her toward the fire, gathering her bones in his arms and pulling her back to his chest until she was solid weight and his nose was buried that day’s scents of ash and sweat. The fleece blanket they’d been cuddling in was carefully draped over the both of them as they rolled and fumbled on the solid ground. He worked her jeans over her hips, his hand into her panties, and nipped her throat while he tested her. She melted campfire sweet around his fingers, her clit throbbing against the deft pad of his thumb. 

“Please,” she gasped, careening her hips and curling in so that she rested, perfectly, in the  groove of his pelvis. One upward shot and he was halfway inside, her cunt as welcoming as it had always been, and he drove into her with sluggish, deliberate strokes, one hand gripping possessively onto her ass that nestled against his thighs, the other tangled in her tameless hair.

This could not possibly be as good as it was, not every time. Not their wired, declining bodies, coming together in fury and madness and desolation, under neon lights from vacancy signs, inside rural gas station bathroom stalls, in the woods and fields and in the backseats of burner cars. But it  _was_. They were a long way from home. There was no other home but this. 

“I love–” her breath hitched at a thrust that slid their bodies upward, and she lifted her knees higher. Her muscles tightened around him, coaxing his hips forward, a growl from his pulsing throat.  “I love being with you. Like this. So much, Mulder.”

He groaned, burying his face in her flannel-covered bicep and shaking his head. The Colorado mountain air stung his cheeks and dried  out his tongue, but all he felt was the pall of sweltering heat that wrapped around him.

“All the time,” she hissed. He shook his head again, his eyes burning with liquid as he lifted his chin to drop his mouth between her neck and shoulders. He licked and sucked and she squeezed her legs shut. On his couch, almost this same position, but with their clothes on and his hands kept (mostly) to himself, she tossed her head back to whisper in his ear:  _I can make myself come like this_. Then with his hands folded over her stomach, her hands on top, and with nothing inside of her, she proceeded to show him. With all the mystery of a magic trick done under the table, she pushed and pulled and pressed her thighs together, metrical, meticulous, until she was shaking in his arms, and the urge fuck the sense out of her – as she had essentially done to him – had taken him over. He’d flipped her over, sunk his teeth into her breast and worked his cock out of his pants before she’d had the time to catch her breath.

It had been so good, even then. But it hadn’t been home. Scully clutched for his fingers digging into her hip and he followed all of her signs, kept his pace and soaked her neck with his tears, while her cries crackled with the spit of a still-going fire, and the rush of her orgasm coated his cock and his inner thighs. 

“I’m here,” she whimpered, quivering, and he shook his head once more, even as hips stuttered, and he emptied himself into her, emptied his head into the soil. “I’m  _here,_ Mulder.”


	22. dragged through glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was "rugburn." MSR. Set post-Orison. TW for mild themes of sexual assault and dubious consent.

She says please, so that’s the end of it.

He kneels behind her on carpet that had only weeks ago been littered by a thousand pieces of broken glass. Glass she had dragged her body though, had carried with her,  _in_  her, as she limped to the front door, leveled her gun with what she considered to be the Devil himself, and shot him in the head.

He checks; one up the down the brutal slope of her back, her straining arms. Curling over to cup her soft tummy, his fingers dancing over her sides and her ribs until she’s huffing a breath and wiggling her hips. Her pussy already claimed nine tenth’s of his self-control, and that nearly takes him out. 

His groping continues and it appears to be just that – fumbling, awkward groping, a greedy man, his oafish paws. A tight, hot little body, a beast getting a grip on its wily mate. But he looks and looks palms first, her swinging breasts and that cross between them, her gunshot scar, her clit, her ass, the tops of her thighs and the bottoms, all the way he can reach, bending to touch the soles of her feet, reaching over to her hands folded on the bed, and grasping them, roaring with some unidentified emotion when they uncurl and wrap around him like morning glory. 

So the cleaning crew did a damn good job. 

She holds his hand and he fucks her like she asked him to. And she’s quiet. She’s too quiet. It would be easier for him, he thought – and he knew it was selfish – if she would just cry or tell him to go fuck himself. He needs to know who he’s playing here – if he’s the bad guy. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy. God, does he ever not want to be the bad guy. 

But her body is at least responsive, maybe moreso than it’s ever been. His cock slips into her again and again with unbearable ease – the good stuff, she’s  _dripping_ , she’s  _drenched,_ humid and intoxicating with that marsh-deep pull. And whenever his brain gets ahead of him, whenever he stops to consider things like  _her feelings_ , and  _is this a good idea_ , she hollers, grinds her ass back against him and begs him to finish.  _Good_  God, he thinks, but I am but a pathetic morsel of a man.

If he trusts himself, it’s been more than once for her already. This is an extraordinary angle for her – and she’s a geometrically inclined woman – and clearly something about the scenario is getting her off, too, because at least twice she’s cramped up and screamed out and buried her face in the duvet. At least once she’s pushed him away to quiver and shake, but then she pulled him back in again, and she was wetter and hotter than earth’s first spring. 

If he could only see her face…

Maybe he could follow her. 

 But they’ve been going at it for awhile; the rugburn threatens to scrape his knees off, and every movement feels as if he is running on empty, like he could collapse on top of her. They’d be more organic matter powerwashed from the skeleton of the Scully’s little Georgetown apartment.

He can’t, he just can’t. How could Scully – did she see him as… think him capable of…

“Mulder,” she  gasps, his hand between hers like they’re both locked in prayer. “God, just…” 

“Anything,” he pants, not sure that he means it.

“ _Make it better_.” I live here. “Mulder, just…” This is my body. “ _Please.”_

He could cry in relief, but he comes instead. “Of course,” he promises the back of her head, moaning when she pushes him down, climbs into his lap and clings to his neck. She doesn’t say anything else.

But if she wanted to, he would listen.


	23. charged up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MSR. Post revival. Prompt was "Seemingly apathetic dominant Mulder." PWP folks.

“Sir, I’m too old for you to be calling on the weekend,” says Mulder into the phone, with much good humor.

Underneath him, Scully thrashes. His knees bracket her ribs and he rides her anger as it grows, her naked, splendid form all red with rage and hunger. How long has it been since they started?

“Well, that _does_ sound like an X-File.” He grasps her hard little nipple and tugs, laughing when she nearly bucks him off of her. Tightening his grip on the phone, he reaches over her head to grab what she’s been begging for since the moment he tied her to the bed. She  _tries to bite him_  for it! “So ungrateful,” he mouths with a disappointed shake of his head, and into the phone he says, “Skinner.” Her eyes follow his thumb rubbing absently over the switch. What kind of mean is he trying to be? “Skinner, I’m getting my car fixed right now. Ignore the background noise.”

He switches it on. High setting. The wand comes to life with one hell of a birthing cry, and when Skinner picks up on the soft humming noise coming from the other end of the line, he wonders when Mulder finally decided to get himself a car, and how he already managed to fuck it up.

Swiveling his hips so he’s kneeling next to instead of on top of her, he mutes the phone, puts it on speaker, and tosses it on the bed while Skinner’s voice comes out strong and authoritative with details of the case.

“You’re going to be good,” he warns, spreading her lips with his fingers, groaning at how her juices cling to the palm of his hand. He runs the shaking head of the wand over her neck, shoulders, and breasts, then the sticky creases of her thighs, watching  her skin ripple and jump with the force of the vibrations. “I don’t want to hear a sound when I unmute him.”

“Fuck you,” she gasps, struggling against her restraints. But she quivers, weak with desire, and goes stiff as a plank when he presses the toy to her helplessly exposed clit. “OH MY FUC–”

He puts weight on it, brings the phone back to his ear and resumes his conversation with Skinner. “Sounds great. I’ll call Scully and let her know.” Scully, so overstimulated she can’t move a muscle. Whose eyes are firmly rooted in the back of her head. Scully, who has peaked twice already, kicking and screaming and threatening his life, and won’t stop until the sheets are soaked and she’s full of his come. “Oh, you want to call her? No problem.”

Scully, whose phone rings on the nightstand about two minutes later. 


	24. rattle them bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MSR. Season of secret sex. Prompt: "Don't make a sound."

“He who walks over the buried,” Mulder said, hushed, as if he might actually wake the dead. “Shall soon be buried himself.”

“Hmm. Not everyone could afford a well-built coffin. The cheaper ones decayed, and cemetery-goers found themselves much closer to their loved ones sooner than they thought possible.”

The leaves crunched noisily as he crept closer and closer, unfurling scents of rot and earth underfoot. His body heat insulted her and their friends down below, and he wrapped her up in it like a shroud.

“Corpses shouldn’t be buried with their jewelry.” His hands went to her cold wrists and he he held them, massaging the blood back into them, as his body cramped her into the wrought iron. “It’s bad luck for the family.”

“That’s probably uh—“ His lips on her pulse point, and his tongue. There were night sounds, insomniac birds and wailing drunkards. The unwaning scritch of a branch on old granite. “Deterring grave robberies. Can’t rob a grave if there’s nothing in them.”

Downhill creep. She was losing. If she could assemble her own perfect human with mismatched extremities, it would look a lot like Mulder. Untouchable in his trench coat, tall and battish, he lurked above her and waited.

“Hold your breath in a cemetery,” he murmured, His breath was Jameson and coffee. Stakeout manna. Off the clock. He dragged her to this cemetery to — to what, exactly— “You’ll breathe in the souls of the damned.”

“I’m not — not sure how that got started — oh. Oh, god…”

“Well, then.” He nipped at her neck, held the flesh between his teeth. Her blood so close to his mouth, the howl of a lonely stray, somewhere way off, pitiful, needy… “Don’t make a sound.” His fingers worked at the fly of her jeans, and then on her. “And hold your breath.”

Her cry went straight to the moon.


	25. frosted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scully/Reyes. Cake & happiness post s10.

Still wrapped up nice and tight in her little blue dress – peplum style, too sexy for a doctor, but surprisingly difficult for tall, dark women to sneak their hands under – and with one heel nearly stuck in the cabinet, Dana Scully tries twice to plate the slices of raspberry chocolate cake they’d gotten to go, but finds that she does not have the patience for it, nor the steadiness of hands.

“Oh my god, Dana! You still have this mug?” Monica’s laugh warms her belly like all the wine they consumed. The brunette plucks the mug from the cupboard she’d been nosily rifling through and shows it off. When she turns to Scully she is giant wave of lush, metallic fabric, statuesque in her maxi with shoes that make Scully come up to only her shoulder.

“What’s wrong with it?” Scully asks around a mouthful of chocolate. She moans as the cake melts in her mouth, the tartness of the berries mixing perfectly with the sweet and gooey sponge of cocoa. She can’t remember the time she got drunk and had cake.

“It has a kitten with a bow tie on it,” Monica snorts, waving the offending ceramic in the air. “You’re so clearly a dog person. We all assumed you were going soft.”

“I’m soft,” Scully pouts. “I have a dog.”

“You  _stole_  a dog.”

Instead of responding, Scully pinches off another piece of cake and pops it in her mouth, taking care to hold her companion’s gaze as she laps up the leftover frosting, and sucks her fingers past her lips. The mug and the cake are forgotten.


	26. the harris teeter promption fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MSR. Season of secret sex. Prompt: Scully calls Mulder up and says "I can't concentrate because I can still feel your tongue on my clit." This is crack.

Harris Teeter was the only late night grocery store that possessed a clientele he didn’t feel judged by, nor could he judge very harshly. Whole Foods creeped him out; Walmart was a dark and lonely place, and he didn’t want to arrest anyone tonight. 

He was staring at his hastily scrawled shopping list, second guessing, mentally striking out and adding to his choices, before his cell phone rang. 

“Yo, Scully. Glad you called.” He freed up one hand by folding the phone between his cheek and shoulder and reached out to grab a jar of pasta sauce. “Vodka or basil tomato?”

“What?” She asked, sounding exasperated. Autopsy bay blues?  “I don’t care. Choose whatever.”

“I’m not sure what makes one different from the other, so I’ll get both. Maybe I’ll mix them together?”

“No, don’t do that – Mulder, I’m pressed for time here, okay? I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Regarding the case? Didn’t Skinner explicitly ask you not to consult me on this one? I was there for that meeting. But I’m glad you are, because I’ve had some thoughts–”

“No, not the case. I can’t even  _think_  about the case right now.”

“Is everything okay there? Do you want me to fly out?” Putting the basket down, he clutched the phone tightly to his face and looked to the automatic doors at the front of the store. “Should I be worried?” 

“Mulder, calm down. No. No. Nothing’s wrong.” Her deep breath restored his heart rate back to normal, and he picked his basket back up. “What – what is that thing you do with your tongue? When you go down on me?” 

The vodka sauce went down, but he caught it quickly, dropping the basket once again with a loud  _crack_. No one paid him any mind, because people who shop for groceries at one a.m. mind their own business.  “ _What_ did you just ask me?”

“Mulder, it’s two in the morning here,” she gritted out. “I cannot finish my notes on this  _very basic autopsy_  report,your every day pillow-over-the-face-asphyxiation, because I cannot stop–” a very un-Scully-like muffled scream of frustration there. “Before I left, you woke me up in lieu of my alarm clock, and it’s like I can still feel your tongue on my clit, and–”

Widening his eyes, he quickly stepped out to look from aisle to aisle. A few stoned college students argued over what type Ben and Jerry’s to pick up before deciding to simply choose their own. “You can’t eat mine.” “I’m totally gonna fuckin eat yours man.”

Mulder ducked back by the pasta. “Listen, uh, Scully.”  _Honey._ “If you could just wait maybe… twenty minutes? I won’t be in public, and I’ll be happy to–”

“I don’t  _have_  twenty minutes, Mulder,” she whined. The desperation of it went straight to his cock. He waddled a little further back, closer to the pizza crusts. “I don’t know if I’m just not remembering what it is that you do or that I never caught onto it. Remind me so I can emulate it, please. Please?” Her pouty voice. Her version of big guns. She’d been contemplating this call for awhile. 

“I can’t divulge trade secrets. What purpose do I serve if you can just–” He stopped himself. You do not say the word “clit” in a store like Harris Teeter.

“Mulder, don’t do this to me.  _Oh my god_ don’t you dare do this to me.” 

“Did I say twenty minutes? Make it ten.” He’d get in his car and park in a dark alley somewhere. It was fucking D.C. Who  _hadn’t_  jerked off in an alley? She moaned a loud, feverish curse, husky with frustration and longing. He decided he wasn’t too good for a Harris Teeter bathroom. “Okay!” He started wobbling, wobbling, wobbling to the back of the store. Wait, was it at the front?  Wobble, wobble, wobble to the front of the store. “It’s not a  _direct_  thing, it’s more that I use my tongue… around… I don’t know how to describe it, Scully, I just do it.” 

“Just keep talking,” she begged. Now he was uncomfortably hard. He spaced out, focused on her heavy breathing, the growly  _oh’s_ she let out whenever she hit a good spot – and he knew those  _oh’s_ , she was getting close – “Mulder.”

“What do you want me to talk about?” There was no pasta sauce in his basket, he thought stupidly. Did she say vodka or the basil stuff? “Jesus, Scully, tell me you’re coming home after this. I thought we could make dinner when you got back. Five minutes? I’m almost–”

“Oh, fuck,” she choked, and that was it. Oh, it was beautiful. He closed his eyes and imagined where her hands were, and what she was thinking about as she came. He was still imagining when she apologized and hung up after promising to be back soon, and imagining still as he made his uncomfortable trek to the Harris Teeter bathroom.


	27. what a personality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MSR. S1. Prompt: Scully sees Mulder in the red speedo.

With her hands clasped behind her back, she waited for his sputtering head to pop out of the water before crouching down to greet him.

“Skinner’s secretary told me I’d find you here,” Scully said, following as he glid to the step ladder. She waved a subdued hello to two agents striding by with towels on their necks, both of whom she worked with while on general assignment. Their answering smiles were awkward as they picked up their pace. Turning back to Mulder, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t know you left the basement after hours.”

“Ah, but it’s  _before_  hours Scully,” he responded, climbing out of the pool. He grabbed a towel from the edge and brought it to his face, precisely at the moment Agent Scully forgot everything about the manner in which she normally conducted herself. Or, in fact, the manner in which any human being might conduct themselves, in terms involuntary breathing, a closed mouth, and eye lids that descended, and then lifted back up, in even intervals.

Mulder chattered away, and God help her she held her own, bantered and cajoled and – they just don’t fit him right, that was the issue, they were much too tight – she talked  _business_ ,  _slipped a file into his hands_ after he draped his towel over one sculpted shoulder – he was beautiful, her partner was gorgeous, and his cock was right there – and she  _said nothing,_  did not make a sound when he leaned into her space, cool and slick, chlorine scented and morning-person chipper, not even when she tailed a bead of water like a bored traffic cop with a brand new pad of tickets from his jawline to a puckered brown nipple.

She might have even gotten away with it, too, if she had remembered how to walk. He was nearly ten feet ahead of her by the time he noticed. He turned back and frowned. “You coming Scully?”

She blinked, ducked her chin, and scurried after his firm, bright red ass, her head tucked to her chest like a tail between her legs.


	28. business as usual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dom!scully, humilliation kink: she walks in on Mulder masturbating in the office

**nc-17; msr; pwp; s5 or 6, maybe?; light dom!scully;** Scully catches Mulder in the office. 

***

He’s too far gone to hear her: poor, poor form for a man who’d had an awkward encounter with a janitor or two in his day. So close, lower lip caught between his teeth as he strokes himself. His head lolls back and he lightly kicks off the floor, leaning back in his desk chair.

“Mulder?”

He lifts his knee and the chair slams back into place. “Oh, hey there,” he says, rolling himself back under the desk. He forms a teepee with his fingers as he props his elbows up on the desk. “Scully.” He clears his throat, fighting the urge to tug at his collar to release some of the heat he’d built up. “You’re back.” 

“I forgot something,” she says flatly, and yep, she knows.  _Motherfucker_. 

“I –” he trails off. It throws him off. Just five minutes earlier he’d been imagining a scenario just like this, someone standing in the place where Dana Scully is now, looking  _significantly_ less put off. Whether he’d been picturing Scully, or at least someone who looks a good bit like her, is besides the point. 

“There were some files I needed to look through.” She says, crossing her arms over her chest. Inscrutable, his Scully. Cold as ice in interrogations. Devastates him in Texas Hold Em. He’s softening, but slowly. There’s still a heat that burns in his belly and her unceasing stare isn’t helping. 

“Have at it.” He waves at the metal cabinets, then smacks his hand back down on the desk, scooting as close as he can get. 

This isn’t ideal, but it’s not the most humiliated he’s ever felt. She’s not his  _mom_  for chrissake. He’ll wait for her to finish up, tuck himself back into his pants, and call it a day. Whatever work he stayed behind to complete isn’t going to get done. 

Something in front of him mysteriously demands all of his attention while she starts pulling open drawers and flipping through folders. He reads the same memo from the crime information center three times over, underlining unimportant phrases as if he intends to remember them forever. The blood in his cock is standing water no matter how much he wills it away. Insubordination is his thing. 

“You can continue,” Scully says. 

He laughs, startled, partially pleased that he hadn’t been caught. His dick twitches because it had played no role in accruing his impressive education. “That’s alright, Scully.” If he just stays under the desk until she leaves, she’ll be none the wiser. 

“I mean it.” She looks at him from over the drawer she pulled out, knuckling between two files to keep them separated. “You don’t have to stop on my account.” 

 _Oh_. 

She’s way more pissed than he accounted for if she’s actually making a thing out of it, angry enough to pick a fight rather than save them the embarrassment. Alright, alright. This is on him. 

“This has been incredibly inappropriate of me,” he concedes, though he wars with the urge to explain how it’s his life’s work in this office, which makes it his life, which makes this all par for the course, really, Scully, you want me to  _go home_ and do this  _later_? 

“Mulder.” 

He forces himself to look at her, face the facts and let her hand him his ass on a T.V. dinner tray – but that’s not anger. 

That is unguarded curiosity.

 _“_ I’m going to continue here,” she says, tapping her nails against the metal. “And you do… whatever you’d like.” 

He carves himself into a blank slate as he hyperventilates on the inside, entire visage reading systems failure.  _Don’t touch that,_ he hisses at himself when his animal brain shoves his hand down to his lap. But it’s too late. In mere seconds he’s back to full hardness, short of breath, a little bit lightheaded. 

Is it  _quantifiably_  his strangest sexual encounter? No. But it is the most unlikely and surreal. Scully’s coming on to him. Scully’s  _coming on to him?_  Is she? In a way. In a  _detached_ way, she is. If she wants to see his dick she’s got to be coming on to him.

Right?

 

Because his brain has always hated his guts, he flashes back to what he’d been thinking about before Scully appeared in his office. Might as well admit it – he’d been thinking about her, dressed in the same outfit she is now. The outfit she’d been wearing all day. Pantyhose with the dark seam, navy skirt cut right above the knee. There’s a single scuff mark on the toe of her right heel, and at lunch he’d pushed the tag of her white cotton shirt back under her collar. Together they shared a regular day in the office. It was… nice. To live through. To think about.

The Scully in his daydream had climbed onto his desk without any greeting and demanded he touch her. Because it was a fantasy, he had done it with no questions asked. He isn’t a coward in his daydreams. He rolled her skirt up past her thighs, centering her on his blotter, and helped her peel down her hosiery. Slipping them in his pocket, he had pushed her conservative cotton panties aside with two fingers. Her pussy was beautiful, impatient, and she quivered under his touch before shoving his face down.

He licks his lips, again imagining the dark taste of her. His clothes are oppressive, and the normally chilly basement interior is too damn hot. Thinking of Scully while she stands right in front of him is the ultimate taboo – disrespectful, fucking stupid, so  _hot,_  so fucking  _hot,_  and even as he prepares himself to reject her kind offer his cock pulses like he’s seconds away from shooting off all over himself.

There’s nothing on this hellish earth that appeals to him more than a bad idea, and this is the worst he could possibly think of. He wants to shake her by her shoulder pads and ask her  _WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?_

“I’d like you to,” she adds, his favorite little mind reader. 

He stays put in his chair and takes himself in his fist, wondering when the syndicate thugs were due to burst through the door and shoot him in the head. When she doesn’t look up from the the cabinet, he clears his throat. Nothing.

“Scully?” He says. Her only answer is to hum at him, and how rare it is to hear her sound so disinterested in absolutely anything. He tugs at himself, using his pre-cum to slick up his fist as his eyes travel down her legs. He rolls the chair out from the desk. “Scully?” he tries again.

She looks up, looks down. Nods.

Goes back to her file.

Oh,  _jesus._

He readjusts himself, undoes three buttons on the bottom of his oxford and lifts it up with his undershirt, giving him more room to get comfortable. Totally exposed in her line of vision, should she choose to look over. She doesn’t, not even when the slick sounds of his hand moving grow louder, not even when he begins to fill the room with strangled groans

Roving his eyes over her body like desperate hands, he’s taken by so many random facets of her. The small rip in her stocking. The length of her legs compared to her torso. A strand of hair that had missed her hairspray this morning and stuck. Out. All. Day. He’d been compelled to reach out and brush it back, but  of course he hadn’t.

He’s close again, way too fucking fast. The cabinet drawer rolls shut. She turns away from him completely, bending over to open her suitcase. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He loves that ass and that tiny waist. He loves her side zipper and the little smudge of ink she hides from him every second of their lives.

She approaches the desk. He chokes. She puts her suitcase down. Turns toward him, cocking her head. Perpetually unreadable. He offers himself to her, spreading his legs for a better view while his hand flies down his cock at lightning speed, and wonders – does she like this? Yeah Scully, you do? You like seeing me jerk my fucking cock for you? Things he’d never say, but  _shit.._

He gasps, abs tightening as he feels his orgasm approaching. It’s going to hit him like a Mac truck. When she pulls out Kleenex from the box of his desk and hands it to him, he grunts thank you, cups it over his cock and milks himself until he’s dry and twitching in his seat.

A minute later, she takes a seat on his desk. Drags him closer by the collar. Demands for him to touch her.


	29. hero treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scully teases Mulder in a conference meeting.

Scully arched her toes and her heel popped off. She let the shoe drop to the floor. “First off, I just want to congratulate everyone in this room on the exceptional service you have provided to our country. You truly exemplify the three pillars of our sacred motto: fidelity, bravery, integrity. You are the driving force…”

Between every movement she counted out the seconds, watching for any disruption in the rows of spiritless agents who scrawled out their notes and nodded their heads in remarkable synchrony. Many of them were second, third, or fourth year winners, and being good at their jobs meant suffering in every other respect. She could relate.

That was why she sometimes chose to be bad.

Her first move was to roll her ankle, then dig the ball of her foot into the carpet. Helena Mycroft announced the keynote speaker to limited applause. Scully wrote it down and shifted her hips, pulling herself closer to the table. Then, toes pointed, she started sliding her foot across the carpet – very lightly to avoid making any noise.

When she lifted her leg and made contact, he positively jumped. She had to stifle a laugh when his chin shot up from his chest and his sleepy eyes woke up and darted from left to right. He hadn’t been paying a lick of attention. Her teasing dragged him out of something deep, and it took him much too long to pinpoint the culprit, and when he did, he gave a rough jerk of his head.

“STOP. IT.” He mouthed through a snarl, dislodging her with a jiggle of his knee. She arched an eyebrow and slowly retreated, a smug tightness to the set of her lips. Looking at the projector, then back at Mulder, then back at the projector, she did not bother to put her shoe back on, and she awaited the inevitable.

It came in the form of him kicking her in the ankle.

What the hell was that for? demanded her searing glance, but Mulder had gone back to doodling in his legal pad. The only tick that gave him away was a flat, dopey grin, hidden part way into his fist.

That gave her all the permission she needed.

The presenter’s words registered in her ear without registering in her mind. She wrote them down as a hundred different conversations. Announced by location… that… every year we… catering is done by… as she pressed her toes to the front of his calf, trailing them upward. She lifted his pant leg away from his ankle, glanced up at him to gauge his reaction, and caught him staring her down. Unashamed of his own distractedness, he watched her intently with the knowledge it made her uncomfortable. If someone were to watch him, it would be so obvious. They would only have to look under the table…

She dislodged herself from the fabric. Unrestricted, she let her foot move further up his calf until she was right under his knee. Any further up, she would have to shift in her seat to give herself leverage to lift her leg. Her neck against the top of her chair, the gap between her lower body and the back of it. Mulder’s eyes betrayed his glee: she would have to give up.

“Alright, agents, we’ll reconvene in five minutes!” The room filled with the orchestra of the criminally bored – every chair emptied and the mild, hushed conversation arose in huddled pockets.

Scully gathered her things and traded seats with the sleepy older agent who had been situated to Mulder’s left. His new seat put his back to the speaker, and he was dozing off in no time. Scully settled in.

“Hello, Mulder,” she said, with such joy it caught the attention of their neighbors. No one in the Bureau quite knew what to make of their happiness whenever it was expressed; they supposed it impossible. Mulder flipped through a stack of papers that had been handed out at the beginning of the session and did not meet her eyes.

“People might think you’re clingy,” he warned, grabbing a pencil to erase at several different nothings.

She leaned in to whisper in his ear, her body angled away to avoid suspicion. “But Mulder,” she breathed, taking pleasure in how he pulled away from her. “I  _am_  clingy.”

He abruptly wrenched his body around to pull her to him, arm slung around her shoulder in a poor imitation of buddy-buddy behavior. “You dirty, dirty girl,” he laughed through gritted teeth, squeezing her tighter with each syllable. “Just wait until we get in that office, Scully. I’m gonna–”

Cut off by Deputy Director Kersh standing up to call the room back to attention, Mulder lifted his arm away and Scully straightened in her seat. Helena Mycroft resumed with her PowerPoint when her audience finished uncapping their pens and pulling in their chairs.

“After our keynote has finished and we’ve all stood for a hearty round of applause. We’re jumping straight into…”

Mulder knocked his knee against the table and swore. Their entire table turned to stare at them.

“You okay, Mulder?” she whispered, squeezing his cock firmly. She tilted her head in mock concern as she palmed him heavy through his slacks.

“Papercut,” he nearly yelled, slamming his fist down. “Getting shot hurts less. What’s the deal with that?”

Scully kicked him and he shut up, slumping over in his chair. After a few deep breaths, he calmed down, picked up his pen, and started writing. Excusing the way he held himself — like he’d been strung up from bone through skin — it was all very passable, her nails skimming his flesh with the lightness of a feather, her thumb finding and caressing the delicate tip.

Mulder was a fine actor whenever he felt it necessary. The more composed he looked often served as a reliable indicator for just how hard he was going to lose it, on a case or in her bed. With that new-found perfect posture and his unrivaled focus, he took real notes on what was being said, and even managed to answer a few questions. God, that made her wet. Toying with his mind – and with was paramount, for she was never cruel without the hope of reciprocation – gently coaxing it to come out and play with hers, laying trap after trap of all that might tempt him into her subcelestial games: that was as much fun as the rest of it. From cunt to consciousness she had him captivated.

Even so, it was Scully who found it difficult to maintain composure. She couldn’t stop licking her lips. Squeezing her thighs together was a miserable tease, and her mind raced with fantasies so ribald as to be rendered totally impractical, yet she could not think back on a time she had ever been more turned on. Ducking down under the table to deepthroat him until he howled his release like the crazed animal they all labeled him as. Stripping off her clothes – restrictive and intolerable as they’d become – and climbing up on the table to get fucked by him.

His large hand squeezed around her wrist, hard. She stopped. The only thing she heard was her own panting, echoing noisily in her head. She closed her eyes.

“That about covers it all, Agents.” The sounds of closing folders and crumpled up paper, of people getting out of their chairs and leaving the room. The projector clicked off; rookies stayed back to ask questions, A.D.’s stayed back to make lunch plans.


	30. ancient medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder does whatever he can to take care of Scully.

They’re kissing lazily on his couch, mouths slipping and sliding with no sense of urgency. The best part about kissing Scully is how natural it feels. Being with her is like the aftermath of a back massage by a thick-knuckled Russian grandmother; the initial suffering is all so goddamn worth it. She is so. Fucking. Worth it. 

“I can’t believe–” he puffs against her mouth, but she licks his bottom lip and words are lost. Damaged goods. Maybe it’s because she talked him into wine instead of beer, maybe it’s the sun setting outside that they can just barely see through his window, maybe it’s the sheer improbability of him ever meeting the best person in the entire world, who is so stupid smart and has tits like  _that._ But he is feeling  _romantic_. 

He rubs his hands down her sweater-covered arms and shivers when she nips at him, tilting his neck to give her better access. Her tongue touches his carotid and he wills his blood to greet her, show her how much he wants her. He feels it in every cell, in every new cell, in every new new cell. It only keeps multiplying. 

“You are the most–” and he stops, point blank. Nothing to add. She chuckles into his skin, it tickles, he nudges her aside. Pushes her onto her back, where she looks so very much like his best friend of seven years. He leans down to kiss her again, pushing into plank to support his weight above her body. He gets stuck, looking down at her. 

“Are you okay?” She frowns, glancing at his lips, then his eyes. He nods and presses a single, chaste kiss to that plump mouth. 

“I love you,” he murmurs into her lips, and she smiles at him. His voice is already wrecked. Definitely had a bit too much wine. 

Underneath her sweater, her belly is soft and warm, and he skims his thumb over her belly button, the puckered skin of her bullet wound, and slips his palms up to press lightly against her ribs. Her lungs rise up to meet him. He unhooks her bra and cups her breasts, grinning shyly when she gasps in his ear. 

“You make me insane. You make me forget… everything.” It’s getting darker and darker in the room, the sun kissing them off. “Without you, I’d be in a mad house.” 

She pushes her tits into his hand, biting her lip when his thumbs brush back and forth over her nipples, coaxing them to come out and play. “Well, you don’t have to tell me that,” she whispers, arching her back.

He smacks a kiss against her chin. “Fingerpainting little aliens during group art therapy.” Sweater has to go now. He sits back to pull it over her head and tosses it aside, sliding her bra straps down her arms. “Just waiting for a hot redhead to burst in and break me out. With her gun.” He crawls down her body to suck her nipple into his mouth and her hands automatically go to his hair. “And her cleverness. And her ravishing good looks.” He bites down, so gently, scraping his teeth when she is most sensitive, and ignores the way his back protests at this awkward angle. 

But he feels like he’s going too fast. He pulls away, fighting her hands trying to pull him back down. “Wait a second,” he says. He hops off the couch and turns on the lamp, pulling his own t-shirt off as he did. When he turns back to face her, she’s propped herself up, topless, resplendent and divine, Venus de Milo meets uh… his own personal casting couch.

Pushing the coffee table back, he kneels at her feet and pulls her toward him, fingers working to unbutton her jeans and slide them down her legs. He kisses the wet spot of her panties, parting her lips through the sodden fabric, and removes those, too, reminding himself to go slower. 

He joins her back on the couch and she watches him, weary and panting. “You got a lot goin’ on, woman. It’s hard to choose.” His mouth falls to the hollow of her pretty clavicle, between her breasts, her shoulders and the mole above her cupid’s bow. Above him she breathes  _yes, yes, yes_ , and let’s him do as he’d like cuz she just trusts him like that. Trusts him to make her feel good. To take care of her.  
  
“Gonna take such  _good_ care of you,” he moans into her neck. His tongue traces a long line from her chin to the center of her chest, and his fingers count her ribs, and his leg pushes between her knees. Maybe he’ll pull her into his lap, watch her as she rides his thigh to her own perfect bliss… no. Maybe another time. 

“Mulder, oh my god,” she cries as he laps at her breasts. She pushes his face between them, unaware of her own strength, and he silently begs her to kill him in this space where she’s soft and warm and horny as hell. 

“You’re so sensitive,” he rasps. “Bet I could make you come like this. In the office, wouldn’t even have to–mmm.” Kisses a stripe from one breast to the other, pulling the nipple into his mouth like he’s starved for it. Pops it out of his mouth, pants against her skin. “Take your panties off or touch you. Just suck your pretty, perfect tits until… mmm… you come on my desk. Hard. Soak your skirt for me.” 

He slides back down to his knees on the floor, pulls her hands in his to lace their fingers together. “Oh, Scully,” nuzzling her belly, smelling her drip for him, heavy and earthen, soil, sea, and melted sugar. “Dana. Hmm. Scully. Dana Scully.”   
  
“Fox Mulder,” she whispers. He likes it when she says it, likes himself when she sticks around. His tongue sweeps over her navel and he strokes her waist, her hips, her strong thighs. Her knee caps, her calves, the soles of her feet. 

“You are a goddess,” he mumbles into her pussy. She undulates like a wave and laughs it off, cut short with the slightest touch of his tongue to her eager clit. “Don’t laugh at me when I tell you the truth. I’m in heaven.” 

There’s no map to follow, no clock to watch. He rears back on his heels and looks at her all at once, then parts of her. Her eyes are impatient, her nose is adorable, her lips are parted and her cross winks at him in camaraderie. Of course her breasts are perfect, and her arms are perfect, and her belly is perfect, and her spread legs are perfect, her spleen, her pineal gland, the webbing between her fingers. She wants him to go, pushing her hips to his salivating mouth, but he wants to stop here forever and never see another sight again. 

Face first he dives in, spreads her thighs apart wide and parts her with a single stroke of his tongue. Insane that he’d gone so long knowing her without trying to put his mouth down here. Insane she’d never told him how good she tastes, how sweet she sounds when he makes her fucking come. She’s a doctor and –mmm. This is ancient medicine, ultimate healing, an anti-fucking-depressant. 

“Gorgeous–” he pulls back and licks her taste from his lips, fucking her with his fingers until the heel of his hand is drenched with her. “I don’t get to tell you enough. You’re beautiful. You’re cute as hell, Dana Scully.” 

“Ah-oh thank you,” stop talking ma’am stop talking and come all over me, “please, Mulder,” she pops her hips, back arching up like a gymnst. “Your mouth-your please.”   
  
He kisses her belly and drags his bottom lip down down down, then wets his cheeks his nose his lips his chin. Lets her ride and control it and takes control when she grows tired of that. Let’s his tongue dip inside her and fuck her stupid, sucks her clit past his lips like the sweetest little berry, loves this woman so hard and so thorough it’ll be the only thing she’ll think about for weeks. 

“Love you,” he flicks his tongue over her clit, fast and strong, and the look in her eyes when she looks into his eyes as she breaks and comes will haunt him for the rest of his life, will be the last thing he sees on his deathbed, will sustain him through anything. 


	31. the nostalgia factor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scully's feeling amorous and wistful on a case, and breaks her own fraternization rules. S7, established relationship. MSR.

She arrived back at the motel much later than expected, autopsy results tucked in a manila folder. The parking lot was dark and empty. Her heels clicked along the asphalt as she approached his room, and she swatted away mosquitoes away from her face with a  quick flick of the folder. Above her, incandescent bulbs buzzed away and cast everything in their dandelion light. They made her feel sleepy standing under them, golden warm and ready for bed. She knocked, yawned, and rolled her neck from shoulder to shoulder. **  
**

Mulder opened the door in stocking feet, shirt untucked, stages and stages closer to the relaxation she so desperately sought. Her toes ached just looking at him. “Hey,” he smiled, letting her in as she waved the file in his face.

She explained the results to him while leaning up against the old oak dresser, which creaked and wobbled with her added weight, as he sat at the foot of his bed and nodded along. It occurred to her just how often this scene played out in their lives, from the beige Trimline telephone resting on the nightstand to the powdery, ancient duvet that stood for a replacement. It was familiar. Amarthine. A snapshot that ran on forever: this motel room, this man, this same routine. Sometimes it depressed her, and she wondered if she’d ever break out. But sometimes, like tonight, she found comfort in it. She liked her life. She liked her job. She most certainly liked Mulder.

“We’ll go in town tomorrow and interview the guys who found the body. We’ll probably need to take another look at the location they found it. Something isn’t added up – Scully?” Her eyes had dropped to his hands, which were wrangling with his belt.

“Hmm?” Her head shot up and he was watching her, amused, lips slanted in a half-grin. She’d been caught ogling.

“Is this…” He motioned downwards, tugging at his belt.  _Okay?_ he was asking. And of course it was okay – how many times had she seen him disrobed, preparing for the end of his day? It came with the territory of being partners. But they weren’t simply partners anymore, and it didn’t matter how many times she’d seen him in various states of undress; this was different. This was indicative of a shared intimacy, domestic. He was getting cozy with her.

Her chest tightened. It was in a thousand rooms just like this one, where he had been dressed just like this, that she had quietly loved him. His tie hanging undone from his collar, his sleeves rolled all the way up to his elbow, or he’d just be lounging in his undershirt, finding fault in every argument she threw his way. Spouting his nonsense, unknowingly drilling small holes in the foundations of her most strongly held beliefs, flirting with her, grinding her down.

She tossed the folder down on the dresser behind him, untucked her shirt, and straddled his lap. His hands flew up to support her, clutching onto her hips as she steadied herself by his shoulders. “Woah, Scully.”

“Kiss me,” she whispered, hoarse. She cupped his cheeks and pulled his face to hers, and their lips met in an easy slide. Her hands slid to the back of his head, stroking through his hair and tangling her fingers through it, and she shivered when his tongue flickered across her bottom lip. He tasted exactly like the day they had, and the predictability urged her on. So long she had wanted this and now it was finally hers.

“I just want to remind you of the rule that you instituted, which you are currently in the danger of breaking,” Mulder puffed against her ear, scratching out a laugh when she sucked his earlobe between her lips. “I don’t ever want to be blamed for compromising your uh… mmm.” Her hips moved against his in smooth pulses, grinding him down into the mattress. “Ethical principles. Far be it from me to lead you astray the path of moral righteousness, which I know you… strive to uphold with every oh god, Scully. Fuck it.” He grabbed her ass with both hands, fingers digging in with bruising force.

She made quick work of his belt and he rolled her skirt up over her hips, hands gripping onto the iridescent slivers of skin peeking out above her stockings. Shirt pushed up over her lacy, black bra, breasts pulled out through the cups and sucked on until she was a whimpering mess, she rode the thick ridge of his cock through his slacks and licked at the roof of his mouth. Oh yeah, this was how she liked her Mulder. Reaching down, she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, reaching into his boxers to find him throbbing and hard as stone.

Fishing him out, pulling her panties to the side to let him in, she teased herself by slipping the tip against her clitoris, slicking him up and throwing her head back. Her toes curled in dark nylon when his hips flew up, piercing her in one smooth thrust. Sheathed in her, he growled thickly in the shell of her ear, the buttons of his shirt scraping at her belly as she lifted up and over him again and again and again. From both sides his arms came around her, wrapping her tightly in their strong coil, and she reveled in the strength of them, how tightly they gripped her and kept her in place.

Their coupling at this moment was distinctly illicit, paid for by their employers and tax payers at large. It was just the thing she was hoping to avoid when they first consummated their relationship, but the forces of the world were all conspiring against her. It was impossible to stay away from Mulder when this was when he was most attractive to her, the way she’d seen him every day for years.

The mattress squeaked and the frame rattled underneath them, cheap and overused, and the lightbulb flickered as his mouth dipped under her chin, teeth latching onto a pert nipple as it jiggled in front of his face. She pulled his face up and kissed him again. Their flesh was cast in a strange green glow, both from the walls and the neon light shining from the vacancy sign posted near their window. When she reared back to catch her breath, her cunt gripping at his length as it split her apart and slid back out, Mulder was clenching at the tacky duvet underneath them, the veins in his thick forearms straining against his skin as he moaned for her to keep going. And beside his noises was her breath, and the slippery, profane sound of her drenching his lap.

One more time, she gripped his agonized face and mashed their lips together, whimpering when his stunned mouth fell open to dumbly accept her tongue. Then she felt it, the warm, stinging surge of his release, followed by his clumsy, frantic fingers finding her clit and making her come with his softening cock still inside of her, their combined fluids seeping out as she quivered and gasped above him. “Fuck,” he squeaked as the clamp of her body sucked the soul out of his. He twitched as she held him in place with her thighs, keeping him trapped inside of her. She waited until she caught her breath, then slipped him out and fell to the bed beside him. When she invited him to sleep in her motel room that night, she tried not to think about how the bureau was essentially paying for two rooms so no one had to sleep in the wet spot.


	32. evolutionary tactics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 headcanons prompt: Scully sleeps with Mulder after missing her date in The Jersey Devil.

She arrived back at the motel much later than expected, autopsy results tucked in a manila folder. The parking lot was dark and empty. Her heels clicked along the asphalt as she approached his room, and she swatted away mosquitoes away from her face with a  quick flick of the folder. Above her, incandescent bulbs buzzed away and cast everything in their dandelion light. They made her feel sleepy standing under them, golden warm and ready for bed. She knocked, yawned, and rolled her neck from shoulder to shoulder. **  
**

Mulder opened the door in stocking feet, shirt untucked, stages and stages closer to the relaxation she so desperately sought. Her toes ached just looking at him. “Hey,” he smiled, letting her in as she waved the file in his face.

She explained the results to him while leaning up against the old oak dresser, which creaked and wobbled with her added weight, as he sat at the foot of his bed and nodded along. It occurred to her just how often this scene played out in their lives, from the beige Trimline telephone resting on the nightstand to the powdery, ancient duvet that stood for a replacement. It was familiar. Amarthine. A snapshot that ran on forever: this motel room, this man, this same routine. Sometimes it depressed her, and she wondered if she’d ever break out. But sometimes, like tonight, she found comfort in it. She liked her life. She liked her job. She most certainly liked Mulder.

“We’ll go in town tomorrow and interview the guys who found the body. We’ll probably need to take another look at the location they found it. Something isn’t added up – Scully?” Her eyes had dropped to his hands, which were wrangling with his belt.

“Hmm?” Her head shot up and he was watching her, amused, lips slanted in a half-grin. She’d been caught ogling.

“Is this…” He motioned downwards, tugging at his belt.  _Okay?_ he was asking. And of course it was okay – how many times had she seen him disrobed, preparing for the end of his day? It came with the territory of being partners. But they weren’t simply partners anymore, and it didn’t matter how many times she’d seen him in various states of undress; this was different. This was indicative of a shared intimacy, domestic. He was getting cozy with her.

Her chest tightened. It was in a thousand rooms just like this one, where he had been dressed just like this, that she had quietly loved him. His tie hanging undone from his collar, his sleeves rolled all the way up to his elbow, or he’d just be lounging in his undershirt, finding fault in every argument she threw his way. Spouting his nonsense, unknowingly drilling small holes in the foundations of her most strongly held beliefs, flirting with her, grinding her down.

She tossed the folder down on the dresser behind him, untucked her shirt, and straddled his lap. His hands flew up to support her, clutching onto her hips as she steadied herself by his shoulders. “Woah, Scully.”

“Kiss me,” she whispered, hoarse. She cupped his cheeks and pulled his face to hers, and their lips met in an easy slide. Her hands slid to the back of his head, stroking through his hair and tangling her fingers through it, and she shivered when his tongue flickered across her bottom lip. He tasted exactly like the day they had, and the predictability urged her on. So long she had wanted this and now it was finally hers.

“I just want to remind you of the rule that you instituted, which you are currently in the danger of breaking,” Mulder puffed against her ear, scratching out a laugh when she sucked his earlobe between her lips. “I don’t ever want to be blamed for compromising your uh… mmm.” Her hips moved against his in smooth pulses, grinding him down into the mattress. “Ethical principles. Far be it from me to lead you astray the path of moral righteousness, which I know you… strive to uphold with every oh god, Scully. Fuck it.” He grabbed her ass with both hands, fingers digging in with bruising force.

She made quick work of his belt and he rolled her skirt up over her hips, hands gripping onto the iridescent slivers of skin peeking out above her stockings. Shirt pushed up over her lacy, black bra, breasts pulled out through the cups and sucked on until she was a whimpering mess, she rode the thick ridge of his cock through his slacks and licked at the roof of his mouth. Oh yeah, this was how she liked her Mulder. Reaching down, she unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, reaching into his boxers to find him throbbing and hard as stone.

Fishing him out, pulling her panties to the side to let him in, she teased herself by slipping the tip against her clitoris, slicking him up and throwing her head back. Her toes curled in dark nylon when his hips flew up, piercing her in one smooth thrust. Sheathed in her, he growled thickly in the shell of her ear, the buttons of his shirt scraping at her belly as she lifted up and over him again and again and again. From both sides his arms came around her, wrapping her tightly in their strong coil, and she reveled in the strength of them, how tightly they gripped her and kept her in place.

Their coupling at this moment was distinctly illicit, paid for by their employers and tax payers at large. It was just the thing she was hoping to avoid when they first consummated their relationship, but the forces of the world were all conspiring against her. It was impossible to stay away from Mulder when this was when he was most attractive to her, the way she’d seen him every day for years.

The mattress squeaked and the frame rattled underneath them, cheap and overused, and the lightbulb flickered as his mouth dipped under her chin, teeth latching onto a pert nipple as it jiggled in front of his face. She pulled his face up and kissed him again. Their flesh was cast in a strange green glow, both from the walls and the neon light shining from the vacancy sign posted near their window. When she reared back to catch her breath, her cunt gripping at his length as it split her apart and slid back out, Mulder was clenching at the tacky duvet underneath them, the veins in his thick forearms straining against his skin as he moaned for her to keep going. And beside his noises was her breath, and the slippery, profane sound of her drenching his lap.

One more time, she gripped his agonized face and mashed their lips together, whimpering when his stunned mouth fell open to dumbly accept her tongue. Then she felt it, the warm, stinging surge of his release, followed by his clumsy, frantic fingers finding her clit and making her come with his softening cock still inside of her, their combined fluids seeping out as she quivered and gasped above him. “Fuck,” he squeaked as the clamp of her body sucked the soul out of his. He twitched as she held him in place with her thighs, keeping him trapped inside of her. She waited until she caught her breath, then slipped him out and fell to the bed beside him. When she invited him to sleep in her motel room that night, she tried not to think about how the bureau was essentially paying for two rooms so no one had to sleep in the wet spot.


	33. wake up call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MSR. Sex while one of them is on the phone. Giggly, happy sex.

“Scully.”

“Mmmmmmmm.”

“Scully.”

“Muller, wha?” She whined, snuggling deeper into the pillow.

The bed was warm and the room still dark; Mulder had one-upped the sun, and was trying to get her to partake in his victory. But Scully didn’t play around with her sleep. She thought Mulder understood that. She clutched the blanket to her chest when she felt a subtle pull, and he laughed, crisp and annoyingly morning ready.

“It’s eight in the morning,” he reminded her gently. The bed shifted, delivering his comforting weight closer to her, and his finger pushing her hair out of her face was only a whisper of sensation. “You wanted me to wake you up. Your brother’s family is in town.”

She shot up, throwing the comforter down to her waist. “It’s eight o’clock? Why didn’t you wake me earlier? I’m supposed to be meeting Bill at ten!”

“Woah, take it easy there, Scully. Two hours isn’t enough?” He slid behind her and scooped her up, strong forearms crossing over her bare breasts.

“I need at least three to prepare myself mentally,” she grumbled, relaxing into his grip. His sandpapery jaw scrubbed enticingly against her shoulder and sparked slick heat between her legs, even as it tickled. She snorted a sleepy laugh, reflexively pressing her ear to her shoulder. “Muldeeer,” she drew out his name and pushed at the safety lock of his embrace.

“I’m just preparing you mentally, Scully,” he breathed into her neck. The sentence was punctuated with the press of his tongue to the shell of her ear, and he felt her vibrate like a bass string. Hot, wet kisses down the side of her neck, his teeth grazing her flesh as he reached her shoulder.

“I need coffee. A shower. Thirty minutes of quiet time as I fight the urge to snag your ankle holster.”

“I know what you need,” he growled, and of course he did. Her legs spread open on their own accord, seeking no permission from the sensible woman who lorded over them. He slid one hand down her stomach and used the other to pinch and roll her tight nipple between his fingers. “Trust me on this. I’ve uh, accumulated extensive data on the matter and,” he cupped her pussy, hissing through his teeth as she soaked his palm. “You’re just so much nicer when you’ve come, Scully. Really.”

“I’m gonna hit you.” But his index finger tapped her clit and her thighs went wild, clamping tight around his hand. “Too much,” she gasped, riding his touch even still.

“How’s this? Open your legs.” He found a spot quite close to her clit, sensitive enough to make her gush, but not so bad she’d snap his wrist. “You should be thankful I don’t take advantage of this great power you’ve bestowed upon me. You’d be the laughing stock of the FBI.”

“What are you on about? Mmm.” She licked her lips, bit them, licked them again.

He spread her with two fingers, exposing her to open air. His chin hooked over her shoulder gave him a perfect view of one finger sliding inside of her, then two. They disappeared, and he grunted when they came back sticky and drenched.

“Of course I agree with Agent Mulder, A.D. Skinner. His intelligence is astounding, his audacity unparalleled.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” It came out somewhere between a giggle and a groan.

“He’s so handsome and he smells so good, Skinner, and I like him so much.” Had to raise his voice over the slick sounds of his fingers fucking her into oblivion, of her squealing with laughter and pleasure: “So much we have to put a towel down before I let him—“

“MULDER.” He oof’d when her elbow caught him between the ribs, okay okay okay, Scully, just let me finish this, you look so good like this, what a fucking way to start my morning.

The shrill scream of her phone rang out right as she was about to climax. “No,” she cried out, heartbroken. So close. So close.

He yanked her body back when she tried to waggle out of his grip, and she landed against his hard chest with a smack. “I got it,” he said, reaching over to grab her cell before she could act.

“What are you doing?” But fuck, he was so good with his hands. He had her back on the brink in no time.

Curling his fingers up, seeking out that spongy flesh that tended to yield him stellar results, he pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder and answered. “Agent Scully’s phone.”

“Who is it?” She asked, sizzled, trembled in his lap like leaves about to blow all the way away.

“She’s actually taking care of something work related right now, my bad. I’ll make sure she calls you back.” He pulled his fingers out and trapped her clit between them, and it felt at once like a punch to the gut and a caress from the strong loving hand of the lord. “I know it’s a Saturday, but it was a small emergency. Hmm. Mhm. Mhm.”

It was entirely too much for that early in the morning, stronger than the three shots of espresso and half a speed pill she took one time in med school. But it woke her up. Her orgasm snapped inside of her like a whip, and her come soaked his hand to the wrist.

“She’ll be able to make lunch,” Mulder assured the caller, pulling his hand back, rolling out his wrist to relieve the cramp, and wiped his fingers against the blanket. “I won’t be keeping her for long. Family first, Bill.”

She shrieked with impressive fury when he hung up the phone, but he’d been right. He’d fucked the anxiety right out of her. Lunch with her brother was unusually pleasant.


	34. mulder/melissa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 headcanons for the prompt: Mulder sleeps with Melissa during Scully's abduction.

**1.**  He doesn’t stick around to help them sentence Scully to death, but he RSVP’s for dinner at their house that night. **  
**

Maggie’s become somewhat of a friend to him, somewhat of a village priestess, an calming presence he most certainly doesn’t deserve. He takes hits of her absolution until the ache alleviates just a little bit and he’s good to leave, only for it to slam him full force whenever he gets back into his car.

But she’s grieving tonight. If this were Dana Scully, he’d take her by the shoulders and tell her to get a grip. He’s not so ready to give up yet.

Maggie Scully, stoic and silent at the head of the table. Melissa Scully, sloshing white wine around her glass, watching him like a hawk.

 **2.**  Maggie Scully goes to bed. He tucks her in, lets her play with the cross at his neck as her tears shine in the moonlight. Her thoughts are so legibly written on her pale face: she’s so, so afraid to bury her daughter.

He stumbles out of her bedroom, sucking air into his lungs until his throat burns. He shuts her door and slides down it, counting the seconds of each breath until they become shorter and shorter. His body is weightless, his vision is all a blur, all until Melissa Scully comes to save him, the rest of the Pinot Grigio in one hand, his heart beating wildly under the other.

She brings him down to the living room and gets him good and tipsy, uncorking another bottle of wine as she calms him down with stories about Dana Scully he’d tease her with for years to come.

He’s fascinated by siblings, and he can’t help but compare her mannerisms to the only other Scully child he knows. Scully never stares into space; she finds an object to pick apart with her mind.  Melissa Scully leaves their dimension with a single glance. “I’m conflicted,” she admits, toying with her choker as she looks at the fireplace. He looks into the fireplace, too. He knows who she’s looking for, what she’s conflicted about.

 **3.** He’s warm and loose, bleeding out on the couch. The night slows, gravity tipping him towards her like pitch black asphalt. In the morning, he’ll wish she’d knocked his teeth in.

Her palm, hard on his chest when he leans in to kiss the copper slant of her full mouth, doesn’t hit quite as hard as he deserves. “Wait a minute, Fox,” she cautions, and that makes two of them, then, two manic heathens in a pod who never listen to the voice of reason.

“I thought she told you not to call me Fox.” He kisses her again, smells the almond oil she cleans her face with. “Or was that all bullshit?”

“What do you mean to her?” Melissa asks, pulling his hand into her own. She clasps it, wrapping her fingers around his palm, and he wiggles it out. The velvet top she’s wearing feels nice and fake, when he cups her thin shoulders. He strokes against the grain, thinking how silly Scully would look in such a garment.

“You didn’t ask?” They never talked about him? That stings. He’s talked about Scully with anyone who’d listen, he talks about Scully in his sleep. He talks about Scully with the stars, with a suspect he’d fucked on a dirty, wooden floor, with all the paranoid lonely souls who read his articles and wept at his pure dumb luck, finding a woman like that.

“I travel a lot,” she defends herself gallantly, staring him down like she’d rather put a bullet in him than fuck him. But he sees it.

Oh, but he  _sees_ it.

She’s gone and I didn’t protect her she’s my sister and she’s dying and I never got to say goodbye I never got to say goodbye when’s the last time I even talked to her did we fight what if she wants to live Fox what if she wants to live and what if we make the wrong decision _I didn’t protect her I didn’t protect her_  –

He is so, so gentle with Melissa Scully, his lips brushing the top of her head as he pushes inside. They make love on Maggie’s couch, soft and slow.

Fate reaches in its ugly fucking hand, right in the middle of all of it, and her hair comes almost all the way out of her clip. Her firey curls fall down in a sheet over her cheek while her mouth gasps his name again and again –  _MulderMulderMul–Muld-_ \- and for a glorious moment she’s fifteen pounds heavier and three inches shorter, and Dana Scully is no longer wasting away on a cold hospital bed. She’s right here with him, where she should be.

 **4.**  Scully does something they both get pretty good at over the next few years; she comes back to life, sleepy and glowing and ready to work. They keep her a week for some residual testing and he visits every day.

Her apparent health invigorates him. She looks like sleeping beauty waking up from a peaceful slumber, and nothing like a victim. It’s deceptive. It’s intolerable. He has to remind himself of what the stakes are, now. He has to remind himself that this is all his fault.

He doesn’t think about Melissa Scully, or what they did together, until Scully invites him over for dinner one night.

“Hosted by the Scully family matriarch. She really took a liking to you.” She says this, and her invitation, into her coffee cup, face aflame with her embarrassment. Dinner with the family is not something they really do. This egregious blurring of the lines makes him deeply uncomfortable, and he almost tries to get out of it on instinct.

“Of course I’ll come,” he says, shocking the hell out of both of them.

 **5.**  “I never would have–” Melissa hisses, beating her fists against his chest. They’re locked in the bathroom where she’d cornered him and speared his toes with her heel. “If I had known–you fucking  _asshole_ –”  
  
“Melissa, what are you talking about? Stop that!” He restrains her arms, his grip sliding against silk black and purple paisley, and slowly she stops fighting him.

That piercing, disapproving glare must run in the family. “If I had known how much my sister  _loved_ you,” she closes her eyes, shakes her head, and fails to complete the sentence.

Sounds from outside penetrate his focus. Scully’s nerdy, squawking laughter peeling out like sunshine, touching all dark corners of the house. The scraping of a spatula against a metal baking sheet. Someone hadn’t used enough olive oil. He can’t hear Margaret Scully’s quiet delight, not over the fan blowing in the bathroom, but he senses it like it could be snatched from the air and wrung out through his hands.

She leaves the bathroom first. He follows a few minutes later, just as soon as the nausea abates.

He doesn’t see Melissa Scully again after that, not alive.


	35. rough goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-IWTB. Breakup sex, no foreplay sex. MSR.

I love you like nothing else, he thinks. The thought bats around in his throat like a terrified moth, sinks into his stomach like a bowling ball. Then it goes away and everything is empty.

When her shit is all packed in her brand new luggage, the house doesn’t look any different. Does she really own that little? Or is she just leaving it behind? He’s got vague memories of tripping over high heels and knocking crap over in the cabinet under the bathroom sink while reaching for a new bottle of conditioner.

Eventually her things became just their things to him, just apart of the scenery. And that, he is beginning to see, is very fundamental to his problem. Nothing has its place anymore, nothing holds significant.

His head hurts. His breath tastes funny. She’s in the kitchen, stacking Grandma Scully’s china into liquor boxes, and there’s just enough space inside of him to hold a little regret, more fear.

Scully startles when his hands wrap around her waist. It’s me. I live here. Why are you jumping. And she sidesteps him, and he dances with her, and he says, you haven’t said goodbye. And she says I haven’t left yet.

If she’s looking for him to say “well don’t go then” oh fuck Scully I’m sorry I’m sorry I just wasn’t thinking. I just didn’t know that was even an option. So he sticks his wet mouth to the back of her neck where strands of red spill out from her ponytail and only there and not her lips because he didn’t brush his teeth and this hate he feels for her is the strongest thing he’s felt in fucking months.

So from there his lips go down and her hips go UP, slam against the counter when his hands go to the zipper of her blue jeans.

Oh, she says. Oh oh oh. He doesn’t want to make her come and he doesn’t want to come. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Wiggly little hips and a tight, soft ass, he’ll miss it, maybe, but there’s a phone call he needs to make, and something on eBay he’d been bidding on, and when is the last time he liked seeing her around — it’s not that he disliked seeing her around, not at all —

It’s just he doesn’t —

Fuck, he slips into her and doesn’t know how he’s even hard. But he is. And this is good. She is… so wet, and so damn responsive. First time they ever did it like this, her back to his front crowded up against a sink, cunt sucking him in like she fucking  _owned_  him — when was that, 2000? And they broke his coffee pot she had been washing and they were late for work? How he could remember that and —

Not  _care_  —

He doesn’t  _care_  —

THIS IS  _HER_  he screams with his hips and his desperate grunts. He fucks her faster, and she grinds and grinds and grinds, back all arched like a fussy cobra. But that’s all, then, because he doesn’t say a word, and his heart isn’t in it.


	36. all together now (mulder/scully/other)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: double penetration. On the run, post The Truth.

“Eyes open,” she whispers.

Teeth stuck in his own tongue, cock heavy in his tight fist, he shifts his seat on the corner of the bed and lifts one eye open.

One frame, a single snapshot. Her mouth licked wet and glossy, fucked red and hoarse. Her body —  _her_  body,  _that_  body, that pale little shrine of good conscience and deep thinking, his best friend. Split, spread, splayed. Speared. She reclines partway, a posture of leisure not often assumed by her, her rosy knees wide open like a book, feet planted firmly hear the edge of the bed. She’s gorgeous, a beauty that never seemed particularly human with those laser locks and brilliant eyes. Undividedly attentive, her curious LED glare points right at him as some stranger grips her narrow hips and fucks her ass for all he’s worth.

She looks so fucking regal.

His eyes fall to the fat, slick cock pulling in and out of her, her tight asshole stretched and eager to accept every move. He knows how sensitive she is there, how to make her whine and fidget under his full weight as he slams into her. Scully As Sexual Being is full of surprises, one of the many parts of her psyche he’s never been able to tap into. He’d been given glimpses, heady, furtive clues during all his years with her, but for so long he’d been too afraid to take her hunger for what it was.

“How does it feel?” He asks roughly, thumb dipping into his slit. All life as he knows it exists purely in his cock, throbbing in his palm with petulant insistence, and the heat of her attention, commanding and devoted.

“Empty,” she says, and licks her parted lips. Cold fire licks at his spine.

Their eyes lock on each other as he lets go of himself and advances toward her, the only sound in the room coming from the man underneath her. His groaning is rough, his dirty talk cheap and forgettable— his face even moreso. When they picked him up, it’d been business like, to the point, almost as if they were interviewing a witness. Mulder thinks the name might be Gerald.

He grabs onto one thigh and lifts it in the air, knocking knees with their guest, who catches on quickly and slides one hand under her firm ass to help her lift up. Spread eagle, legs high in the air, Scully gasps as Mulder fits himself above her and traps her between their combined strength. Looking down at her, she’s the definition of pinned, nowhere to run or hide as he angles her hips to him. They meet eyes, and his heart pounds at the desire there. Porn that loves him back. Hooooly shit.

She begs him. “C’mon, Mulder,” she pants, trying to wiggle closer, away from the onslaught below. He swallows and obliges, slicks himself through her open lips, and plunges into that delightful, wet little pussy, dying a thousand deaths as her head flies back in shock.

Having another man’s balls brush up against his own is a  _weird_  feeling, but ultimately a pleasurable one that he would definitely recommend in a letter to Penthouse. He can also feel —  _fuck_  — every movement, almost a persistent nudging from behind her smooth walls, and of course every thrust from below sends her up higher, forcing her back on his dick without any necessary work on his end. And Scully,  _his_  spitfire, heartattack of a woman, is wetter than fucking ever, two men pulled into her cove and drowned for their hubris.

And when she comes, falls apart with only his name on her lips and his thumb at her clit, he has never felt quite so exquisitely alone with her, never so possessed by her, never quite so close.


	37. random blow job fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> early morning blowjobs. s11. MSR.

The kitchen table is generally the only bare surface in the house, save for the vase they dug up from the pits of the cellar whose origins remain undetermined. Too expensive for her family to have owned, too tacky to be a Mulder heirloom. In the center of it are limp, half-wilted black eyed susans that they had found in a field along with a victim. 

Still, they’re nice to look at. She smiles when she sees them over her mug of twig tea and her bowl of granola. She spears a kiwi slice into her mouth and looks down at her magazine, chewing as she reads.

She’s halfway done with her breakfast by the time Mulder pads sleepily down the stairs, scratching his belly under his tank top and muttering to himself. Neither of them are any good at sleeping in, but sometimes they manage. Spiky hair, long, bare feet, his sweatpants slung low on his hips. An invisible force clenches around her heart, a snare of long-repressed adoration. He places his hand on her shoulder when he passes her and bends down low to kiss her cheek. “Mornin’,” he mumbles, lightly nuzzling her ear. Then he disappears into the kitchen, on a hunt for the last clean mug.

While he’s in the kitchen making coffee and toast, Scully takes a drink of her tea and thinks hard about nice it is to wake up here again, and how great his dick looks in those sweatpants. She can’t remember it ever being so obvious in the 90s and chalks it up to it being a different time. When he’s on his way back, hands full with his breakfast, her eyes drop down to it again. She stops him with a hand to his hip before he can sit down in the chair next to her, and he raises an eyebrow at her. 

She presses lightly on his hip, and he follows where she’s moving him, furrowing his eyebrows at her in amusement. 

“I like these,” she says, delving her fingers under his waistband. He chuffs when she snaps the elastic.

“I have nicer sweatpants, Scully.” But she hums and slides her hand down his firm thigh, reaching behind him to squeeze an asscheek. He laughs again. 

She can’t look away, really. It’s all right there, the unmistakable print of a thick, long cock, semi-swollen with sleep. Do men wear these in public? They’d be carted off for public indecency, surely? 

He grunts when she angles his hips towards her, and ducks down to tongue the clearly visible head through the fabric. “God, Scully,” he whispers, slotting his fingers through her hair. She nuzzles and mouths at him, tracing the length with the tip of her tongue. “Good morning to you, too.” 

She swims with the gentle wave of his hips, letting her saliva soak through the cloth. Regrettably, the sweatpants have to go. She drags them over his sculpted ass, down his thighs, and they fall to his feet when she draws him slowly into her mouth, erases any traces of sleep he might carry. 


	38. take it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scully fucks Mulder Stella Gibson style. S11.

The connecting door opens, and Mulder looks up from where he’d been fastening his pants.

“Hey Scully,” he says, zipping himself up. “Normally you knock.” He reaches behind him on the bed to grab his tie, letting out a startled laugh when she yanks him toward her by the collar of his shirt. He stumbles backward, her hands guiding his pliant body, and she swivels him to face her. 

“Woman, you are insatiable– mmm.” Cut off by a kiss. They fall back on the bed, inching closer to the middle, and she straddles his hips and tugs his shirt tails from under his belt. Undoes it, the button, the zipper,  pulls his cock out and touches him. Slick and utilitarian, she jerks him off to full hardness, using her other hand to hike her skirt up over her thighs. 

Sitting up to help her, he’s stopped with a firm hand to the solar plexus. He  _ooofs,_ falls flat on the bed, and watches her peel her own sweater over her head. 

“Look.” But she touches, moving one hand to his chest to steady herself. His abs tense when she glides him between her lips, rubbing the thick, wet tip against her opening. Drenched, so sensitive and swollen she bites her lip at the barest contact. 

“God, what were you thinking about?” He asks, wincing when she slides down the length of him, no signal, no pause.  “Where’s your underwear?” 

“Quiet, now,” she hushes him, slowly beginning to ride. One hand joins the other on his pecs, and she rocks her hips in a maddening rhythm as she braces herself and grinds down. He watches her tits straining in the hardwired cups of her black bra, halfway stuck in the fantasy of freeing them and half on his way to sudden brain death. 

Her long hair brushes over his chest as she rises and she falls, her ass slapping against his raised thighs as he begins to gently parry her thrusts, unsure of how much she is willing to let him get away with. No words, no admonishments, just her quickening breath and his answering groans, her cunt so snug around him he swears he can feel her heartbeat. 

Suddenly she sits up, her muscles squeezing him tighter as her body flexes. He licks his lips helplessly and watches the determined look on her face, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her blue eyes shining with the glint of cold steel. 

“ _Fuck_ _,”_ he bellows out when she picks up the pace, bounces, lifts herself all the way off of his lap and slams herself back down. He shoots up and her hand comes up to his shoulder, allowing herself the leverage to force him in harder. “Oh,  _fuck me_. Harder – harder–”

His hands fly to her hips and she reaches down to rip them off, pinning him down while she hits the spot and bears down. 

“Yeah,” she hisses, head lolling back as the flush of her orgasm begins to creep up her spine. “Take it, fucking take it.” 

“You fucking take it.” He snaps his hips so hard his ass flies off the bed. His hands bracket her hips again and this time she doesn’t stop him as he drives himself deep. She whimpers and falls against him as his body works on autopilot. 

From a fully functional, above average federal agent, kind of a stud, pretty on top of the game in most respects, he’s reduced to a complete and utter slave to his need to feel her come around his dick. Coming into  _his motel room –_ never again on cases, Mulder, we’re too old for that – not even eight o’clock in the morning – his balls draw up tight and the mattress screams. 

“Ah!” Scully goes utterly still, and the pressure of her muscles fluttering around him borders on pain. He groans when she squeezes him out and his belly is coated with a rush of warm liquid. 

Whimpering, she pulls him back inside of her and he topples them over, and with three sharp thrusts and he’s finished, KO’d, dangerously close to sending them crashing through the bed. His hands come up under the cups of her bra and squeeze her tight, his feral growl hidden in her neck.

“Will you just sleep in my room,” he gripes, after they’ve both had enough time to come down. 

“No,” she says, sitting up and smoothing out her skirt. “It’s more fun this way.”


	39. cufflink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did they start using handcuffs? s6 before established relationship.

In the dark, there is his voice, a glint of silver, and the frantic, urgent noises of an animal being introduced to its cage.

“Scully.” Metal on wood. Scraping turns to pulling. Pulling turns to jerking, his wrist all sliced to shit. “What the hell are you doing?”

At least she looks uncertain. At least she looks nervous. She should be. “Mulder, if you go out and chase that lead, Kersh made it very clear…”

 

Particle board chips and splits with a satisfying crunch as his shoe goes through it. Losing focus, losing sight of the goal, he kicks it again, stomps it to pieces as the rage courses through him and the world becomes a blur. The lamp crashes and shatters, the phone falls to the floor. Then he’s stumbling backward with nothing left to kick, collapsing on the bed with an anguished growl.

“Fuck Kersh! Take this off!” He shouts until his voice goes hoarse. His wrist burns as he tugs and yanks up against his restraint, and she yelps at him.

“Stop hurting yourself, and listen to me,” she begs, rushing to his side to calm him down. But when his feet change their trajectory and she has to fight off his fury, her tone changes. It becomes very apparent why this method appealed to her. “You crazy bastard! You’re going to get us fired!” And then she’s got him in a half-tackle, a laughable attempt at pinning him down with her small body.

They both writhe, screaming until they’re both red in the face, crying. The slide of his wrist in the cuff is wet and smooth with the blood of his efforts

Oh, loathing Scully is not a new feeling to him, not at all, but the bestial urge to maim, to destroy, has never, ever burned in him so deeply. And yet she feels – and smells, and sounds, her groans and gasps so close to his ear – so good, so warm and real. Flashes of what he’d like to do to her are scant moments of sweet relief in their savage tangle as he tries to maneuver her underneath him, to get some leverage in this awful game. Fucking her, right here, driving into her hard and fast until she has no recourse but to crumble below him, her pale, proud body a trembling mess all around his cock. Strangling her, her last breath as dauntlessly earned and reveled in by him as her fabled orgasm. He’s hard as his own life, daydreaming about hiding the body and going back to visit it, struggling to make her stop slipping around like that, thinking about what she’d do if he bit her clearly hard nipple through her blouse and her nondescript boring little Dana Katherine Scully bra.

“Will you just stop it and listen to me?” She straddles him, bracketing his waist with two firm knees, spreading her legs wide to get a good seat on him. “No!” he spits as she slips into her tirade, smacking at his hand when it bunches up in her shirt. He gives it a sharp tug, reeling her backwards. “I’m so sick of being your babysitter! We’re on the verge of – cut it out!” Her hand flies out quickly and she smacks the closest thing to her.

As soon as the stinging registers, slight but there, on his cheek and the edge of his jaw, her face flickers in apology. It falls and she looks decently shamed. When she reaches out as if to caress him, he takes a sickening delight in the squeal she makes when he grabs her arm and wrenches it behind her, stretching out one ankle almost to the furthest edge of the bed and breaking her straddle.

He could kick her. He could kick the shit out of her. He’s got thin legs but strong ones, and she’s small enough that she’d go flying. He won’t, but the thought feels good, and he blurs the edges when he wraps one leg around her, using the momentum of the movement to try unseat her. No luck.

“Then leave!” With his free arm flying madly, he tries to cradle her to him with all of his strength, so that he may roll them over and crush her into the mattress with his weight. “Leave anytime, Dana, no one’s stopping you,” he hisses into her ear. She ducks down close to draw his grip away from her waist and inches upward. He bucks his hips, intending to throw her off, and brings his fist to that indisputably Scully-red hair instead. If she won’t go, he’ll make her. But the pleasure of her grinding against him, her hot little pussy dragging over his thigh, over his tight cock straining toward her like an arrow, stuns him. He falters before he can bring himself to pull her off by hair hair.

She stills above him, shocked, and he hates her all the fucking more. He takes advantage of it, lurching up, locking her with his legs and finally rolling them over. Fuck yes.

“I think this is where you call uncle,” he says, putting the slightest pressure on his chained forearm against her neck. “Or daddy, if that’s preferrable.”

Her eyes flash with outrage, a hint of fear, and he’s glad for it. This is too much for her, and he knows she’s about to grab the key and uncuff him. He makes no move to conceal how hard he is for her, nor does he make it any easier for her to breathe. How had things gotten this bad? Have they always been this bad? Has he ever wanted her this much, ever been so close to it, just reaching under her skirt one handed, pulling down her boring, soaked panties, and driving her just as mad as she’s made him?

He seethes at her, watching her eyes narrow in the dark, breathing in the arousal she’s marked him with. So good and so fucking familiar. She’s been turned on by him before. When? When was she —

A sudden movement, and that’s it, she’s ready to end this dumb and foolish thing. Ready to admit defeat. He’ll forgive her, only if she rides up with him to meet that source —

She grinds upward, throwing her arms around his back and pressing his weight down. Fuck. Fuck.

“What are you doing, Scully?” He hisses, confused, moaning at the controlled, necksnapping crack of her hips.

“I figured out a better way to get out of those cuffs,” she smirks. Then she’s got him in a chokehold the second he eases off, one sharp knee butting into his thigh. Up and up. She’s top.

He growls, forgets the pain in his wrist and the implications of letting her win. Lets her simply do it. All of the sudden he feels right at home tethered to the bedpost, on the verge of having spectacularly violent and spectacularly ill-advised sex with Scully.

She slowly removes her skirt, threatening to cuff his free hand if he doesn’t keep it to himself.

He’ll figure out how to kill her later.


	40. profiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sensual breast play, post Lazarus. Mulder tries to figure Scully out.

She’s naked except for the watch on her wrist, permanently stuck on 6:47. He thinks better when he touches her, so he doesn’t stop. She purrs in his hands, her breasts are fun, weighty, the unknown variable now known.

Physically there’s not much of a resemblance. Tall, maybe. Dark haired and quick moving. What drew her to him? That he was older? That he wore his wisdom in the lines of his face? No, no, he knows men like that. Jack Willis wasn’t wise. Too many Bureau men lost sight of what was important—

She gasps and pushes into his cupped hands, and the next logical step is to bring his mouth to her. Oh, Dana Scully is sweet. He likes her. Doesn’t want to admit it. This is stupid thing they are doing. His friend and partner pulls at his hair when he laps at her hardened nipples, lgiggles and squirms when he runs her fingers over her ticklish belly.

—Got too caught up in the thrill of the chase and let everything else fall to shit. Jack Willis was a hard man. What drew him to his student? Dana Scully, green as spring grass, piping up to argue from the back of her room, hand raised but not waiting to be called on—

Who wriggles underneath his clever tongue, and moans his first name like a prayer. It feels like an accomplishment. Like he’s —

— a hard man, all work and no play makes Jack a bitch to live with. Had she made him feel young? Powerful? Did he draw strength from her frank and open-faced admiration —

From her position as subordinate —

Does she like — that — when he bites her. Her body is soft; his rolling stomach fights with the tightness in his groin when her knee brushes against it. When she had kissed him and dragged him into her room by the tie, he hadn’t stopped it. Had thought to. It felt wrong. But he’d stripped her. Cupped her between the legs and played in the wet of a woman’s body for the first time in fucking —

— All work and no play. Come here Scully. Sit down Scully. She gives her reports, he has his own due at the end of the year, a folder full of nothing but high praise —

But he still has to give them —

— All work and no play.

“Dana,” he whispers into her skin, closing his eyes and dragging his lips up the column between her breasts. He raises his head to watch her face. She isn’t looking at him, her small chin clamped shut. There’s nothing of the off-putting warmth or girlish giddiness she sometimes graces him with, not even the more customary wariness, when her brain is on edge to race him to the goal post of whatever intellectual marathon they’d been running them that entire day.

The watch on her wrist doesn’t tick past 6:47.

He fights off a shudder, kisses her chastely on her generous mouth. Pulls the blanket over her still body and tucks her in.


	41. scully takes charge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> revival era sex, dom! scully, msr

His fingers inch over the bottom slat of the headboard. Loose grip, slack arms, his head propped against one of her forty-dollar pillows.

Her knees are spread wide and push up into his armpits, a long sweep of copper obscuring her expression. “Keep your hands up there,” she instructs, tracing a finger around the curve of his jaw. He nods, rubbing his stubble against her. It’s not all that uncomfortable a position, so he sinks into it, waits for her to come to him.

He watches curiously as she scoots back, having expected her to ride his face. When she straddles his ribs and begins chewing uncertainly at her lower lip, he places a hand at her hip.

“Don’t do that or I’ll stop,” she warns, removing his hand and putting it back on the headboard.

“Want me to break out the cuffs?” He asks, cock twitching at the thought. It’s been a  _minute_  since they’d done that.

“No,” she shakes her head. “I just want you to do what I say.”

Well then.

He white knuckles the wood, is good even when she reaches back to test him, to work the pre-cum leaking from the crown down the base of his dick, her pointed face stern and expectant. The veins in his arms tense up, attention-seeking.

She pulls her hand away and continues her nesting frenzy, clumsy and endearingly sexy as she tries to fit this new bulk of him between her legs. Finally she finds a spot where she can kneel above him with some comfort, far from his mouth and farther from his cock.

But he can see her plainly as she leans back, palming the bed for support, exposing everything in one shot-to-the-heart move. The stripe of furry red leading to her bare, swollen lips, slick and slightly open when she brings her fingers down to spread them wider. Showing him. Fuck.

“Headboard, Mulder,” she reminds him one more time, before closing her eyes and leaning her head back. She presses one finger inside herself, biting her lip and then gliding it back upward, smoothing her wetness over her hard clit.

If anyone were to ask how this 110 pound woman somehow owned his ass, subdued him and cuffed him to kitchen cabinets, beat him up and had him scarfing down blue pills and crawling around the house begging for more, he supposes he might say creativity. He wonders if she sets aside a certain amount of time each day to come up with this shit. If she has it in her calendar. If she sets her alarm as a reminder like she does when she has to take her meds or take Daggoo for his walk.

Because this might be torture tailor-made for him. He can smell her, his favorite scent for almost a couple decades, beachy and light and only a foot away from his face. The foamy sounds of her pleasure, glossy and endless, her canting breath and the growl stuck in her throat, the smooth wet slide of her short fingers pumping in and out of her.

The  _sight._  The first time he’d seen Scully’s pussy all wet and red like this he’d been stuck in voiceless awe as if he’d seen just shaken hands with an honest-to-God alien overlord. Years later and now he gets to live out the rest of his life with it pressed up against his face.

All he’s missing is “taste” and “feel”…

“Open up,” she says suddenly, and he complies like a dumb trained animal, letting his jaw drop open with a clink. He sucks in her offered fingers and cleans her up, realizing by the taste of them that she’d made herself come. How has he missed it? Fuck.

He’s almost ten-fingers-off the headboard, gearing up to flip her over and bury his tongue in her, feeling her shocked laughter and heated delight with every squeeze of her body. She interrupts him, wiping her fingers on the duvet.

“I taste good, Mulder?”

“Yeah,” he pants, his wrists sore and tingly, his tongue too thick. “ _Yes_. You taste beautiful. I fucking love you.”

The lines in her face shift in thought, and she studies him like she’s suspicious. Then she smiles, pleased and a little naughty, his favorite of the handful.

When she climbs up and settles down, she lets him use his hands, as his mouth is incapacitated. One quick move and he’s surrounded by her, tamed by her, is the supplicant and the altar and the throne.


	42. scully/krycek/mulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a tiny thing for SCULLY KRYCEK MULDER

His eyes burn, leak, clench in their sockets. He moans like a whore, is a whore — for the tight, brutal fist locked up in his hair, for the fucked taste of her, raw and sweet on every bud on his tongue. Mulder yanks his head back one more time, snarls for him to lick  _deeper_ , and he chooses to oblige, moaning loudly when her cunt grips around his tongue and he tastes it, that familiar salt, thick and almost endless.

“That’s right. Clean her up,” Mulder says, shoving his boot into the curve of Krycek’s spine. “Then maybe I’ll fuck you too.”


	43. birthday sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MSR, post-The Truth, on the run. Mulder's birthday.

Three Hostess apple pies because  _I missed the last two, Mulder_ , and they heated them over the teepee fire after the sun bade farewell to the party, to their sticky harvest mouths and their bodies rustling through the leaves. 

“I’m so happy you’re here,” she sighed into his lips, her chilled hands skimming underneath his sweater. She took his pebbled nipples between her fingers and licked at his tongue while the wind whistled in the tree tops above them and his cock filled for her.

Too cold to feel skin, he angled her toward the fire, gathering her bones in his arms and pulling her back to his chest until she was solid weight and his nose was buried that day’s scents of ash and sweat. The fleece blanket they’d been cuddling in was carefully draped over the both of them as they rolled and fumbled on the solid ground. He worked her jeans over her hips, his hand into her panties, and nipped her throat while he tested her. She melted campfire sweet around his fingers, her clit throbbing against the deft pad of his thumb. 

“Please,” she gasped, careening her hips and curling in so that she rested, perfectly, in the  groove of his pelvis. One upward shot and he was halfway inside, her cunt as welcoming as it had always been, and he drove into her with sluggish, deliberate strokes, one hand gripping possessively onto her ass that nestled against his thighs, the other tangled in her tameless hair.

This could not possibly be as good as it was, not every time. Not their wired, declining bodies, coming together in fury and madness and desolation, under neon lights from vacancy signs, inside rural gas station bathroom stalls, in the woods and fields and in the backseats of burner cars. But it  _was_. They were a long way from home. There was no other home but this. 

“I love–” her breath hitched at a thrust that slid their bodies upward, and she lifted her knees higher. Her muscles tightened around him, coaxing his hips forward, a growl from his pulsing throat.  “I love being with you. Like this. So much, Mulder.”

He groaned, burying his face in her flannel-covered bicep and shaking his head. The Colorado mountain air stung his cheeks and dried  out his tongue, but all he felt was the pall of sweltering heat that wrapped around him.

“All the time,” she hissed. He shook his head again, his eyes burning with liquid as he lifted his chin to drop his mouth between her neck and shoulders. He licked and sucked and she squeezed her legs shut. On his couch, almost this same position, but with their clothes on and his hands kept (mostly) to himself, she tossed her head back to whisper in his ear:  _I can make myself come like this_. Then with his hands folded over her stomach, her hands on top, and with nothing inside of her, she proceeded to show him. With all the mystery of a magic trick done under the table, she pushed and pulled and pressed her thighs together, metrical, meticulous, until she was shaking in his arms, and the urge fuck the sense out of her – as she had essentially done to him – had taken him over. He’d flipped her over, sunk his teeth into her breast and worked his cock out of his pants before she’d had the time to catch her breath.

It had been so good, even then. But it hadn’t been home. Scully clutched for his fingers digging into her hip and he followed all of her signs, kept his pace and soaked her neck with his tears, while her cries crackled with the spit of a still-going fire, and the rush of her orgasm coated his cock and his inner thighs. 

“I’m here,” she whimpered, quivering, and he shook his head once more, even as hips stuttered, and he emptied himself into her, emptied his head into the soil. “I’m  _here,_ Mulder.”


	44. rugburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scully asks Mulder to help heal her after Orison. Mild dubious consent.

She says please, so that’s the end of it.

He kneels behind her on carpet that had only weeks ago been littered by a thousand pieces of broken glass. Glass she had dragged her body though, had carried with her,  _in_  her, as she limped to the front door, leveled her gun with what she considered to be the Devil himself, and shot him in the head.

He checks; one up the down the brutal slope of her back, her straining arms. Curling over to cup her soft tummy, his fingers dancing over her sides and her ribs until she’s huffing a breath and wiggling her hips. Her pussy already claimed nine tenth’s of his self-control, and that nearly takes him out. 

His groping continues and it appears to be just that – fumbling, awkward groping, a greedy man, his oafish paws. A tight, hot little body, a beast getting a grip on its wily mate. But he looks and looks palms first, her swinging breasts and that cross between them, her gunshot scar, her clit, her ass, the tops of her thighs and the bottoms, all the way he can reach, bending to touch the soles of her feet, reaching over to her hands folded on the bed, and grasping them, roaring with some unidentified emotion when they uncurl and wrap around him like morning glory. 

So the cleaning crew did a damn good job. 

She holds his hand and he fucks her like she asked him to. And she’s quiet. She’s too quiet. It would be easier for him, he thought – and he knew it was selfish – if she would just cry or tell him to go fuck himself. He needs to know who he’s playing here – if he’s the bad guy. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy. God, does he ever not want to be the bad guy. 

But her body is at least responsive, maybe moreso than it’s ever been. His cock slips into her again and again with unbearable ease – the good stuff, she’s  _dripping_ , she’s  _drenched,_ humid and intoxicating with that marsh-deep pull. And whenever his brain gets ahead of him, whenever he stops to consider things like  _her feelings_ , and  _is this a good idea_ , she hollers, grinds her ass back against him and begs him to finish.  _Good_  God, he thinks, but I am but a pathetic morsel of a man.

If he trusts himself, it’s been more than once for her already. This is an extraordinary angle for her – and she’s a geometrically inclined woman – and clearly something about the scenario is getting her off, too, because at least twice she’s cramped up and screamed out and buried her face in the duvet. At least once she’s pushed him away to quiver and shake, but then she pulled him back in again, and she was wetter and hotter than earth’s first spring. 

If he could only see her face…

Maybe he could follow her. 

 But they’ve been going at it for awhile; the rugburn threatens to scrape his knees off, and every movement feels as if he is running on empty, like he could collapse on top of her. They’d be more organic matter powerwashed from the skeleton of the Scully’s little Georgetown apartment.

He can’t, he just can’t. How could Scully – did she see him as… think him capable of…

“Mulder,” she  gasps, his hand between hers like they’re both locked in prayer. “God, just…” 

“Anything,” he pants, not sure that he means it.

“ _Make it better_.” I live here. “Mulder, just…” This is my body. “ _Please.”_

He could cry in relief, but he comes instead. “Of course,” he promises the back of her head, moaning when she pushes him down, climbs into his lap and clings to his neck. She doesn’t say anything else.

But if she wanted to, he would listen.


	45. get warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> s7; pre-establihed relationship; pg-13; mulder and scully rush into her apartment out of the rain.

Scully can’t smother the laughter bubbling in her throat as she and Mulder dash to her building under malevolent downpour, the squeaky, undignified noises making her cringe even as the rush of adrenaline fills her with elation. The umbrella is no use against the torrent, and by the time they reach the front steps they’re both nearly collapsing with laughter, their suits completely soaked through, struggling to wrap up the umbrella before they head inside. 

“Where the hell did that even come from?” Scully says, fighting to keep her giggling under control. The cold air in the building hits them like another storm all on its own, and they shiver all the way to her apartment, rainwater squishing noisily in their socks and shoes. He huddles over her back while she gets her door open, and they both stumble in with heaving lungs.

“I’ll get us some towels,” she says, locking the door behind them and stepping out of her shoes. “I mean, I’ll change, and you can…” 

“Sit here and die of hypothermia in my drenched clothes?” Mulder asks, untying his own shoes, slipping off his dress socks. 

Scully’s breath catches when he shucks off his jacket and drops it in a wet heap on the floor, and she’s too distracted to tell him off. The material of shirt clings to his muscles and through the wet fabric she can make out the impressive shape of his arms. 

“You don’t have to,” she offers. He pauses, eyes landing on her to make sure he heard her right. “We’ve been heading here,” she adds. “We’ve talked about it.”

“We have.” He searches her face, finds it unreadable, just like his is. His wet clothes pull at his skin uncomfortably when he shifts his weight, and he doesn’t move when she comes near enough to share her warmth. “This isn’t quite the way…” her buttons work at his shirt, and he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. “I mean, I thought there’d be dinner first.” 

“We can whip something up,” she says, revealing his undershirt to her roving eyes. He’s warmer here; she wants to press her cheek to the humid heat of him, let it bring her temperature up. 

“I thought I’d be carrying you off to bed…” she peels the sleeves down over his arms, the fabric wringing out as she rolls it down. He’s golden, slick and burning hot under her palms. “I thought we’d be considerably warmer.” His hands come to her waist. She knows her nipples are a spectacle, but this time she’s glad he can see.

“I’m trying to get us warm. You’re being useless.” She pulls him down to kiss her, and he obliges, shivering under her touch in a way that makes her feel as powerful as the weather outside. 


	46. it goes right through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-series, Scully/other; AU where punk!college scully gets her nipples pierced.

It was her first  _real_  breakup, because Marcus hadn’t come close to this. Her capacity to feel things was so much stronger now than it was two years ago. Marcus was sweet, an intelligent boy with sandy hair and top volunteer at their shared church. He was never supposed to be forever. 

Brent  _was_. 

Brent hadn’t been all that sweet, but he’d been smart. He was her T.A. in her Calc 3 class – she’d tested out of Calc 1 and 2 – and he was the first man to make her wet on sight. He was also the first man she’d ever made a fool of herself for.

Never again.

Her first attempt at getting his attention failed miserably. She did what she always did when she wanted to matter – she proved herself. Always the one with the answer, always the one to  _correct_ others who didn’t have the answer, always in class on time, always asking questions. She’d been the star. While she slaved away at her homework, Brent had been picture perfect in her mind. His dark hair, slicked back like he’d walked straight out of an old movie. The stove pipe jeans. The cigarette that hung from his lips whenever he passed out their tests. 

He ignored her. 

 _Oh,_  that just made it worse. 

Her professor loved her. Sung her praises to all who would hear him, asked  _her_  for the chance to sit in on her thesis defense, guided her along with a parental pride she’d never really felt before. But it was Brent she wanted to impress, Brent whose attention she craved like food and water. 

It wasn’t until she’d been forced to skip class because of a cold that he even spoke to her beyond what was strictly required for grading purposes. “Dana Scully, playing hooky,” he’d laughed, and his voice rumbled along her spine, playing her like a piano. 

It all went downhill from there.

Suddenly, she needed  _help_ , Brent.  _I didn’t understand this in the text book_ , Brent.  _Can I bum a cigarette,_ Brent?  _This class is so hard and I’m barely passing_ , Brent. 

He’d told her he loved her after only a week, right after a tutoring session that’d ended up in a long, hard fuck on her dorm room bed. It’d been exhilarating. He was a biter, and he cared about making her come, and her roommate had been angry for a week because the tie on the door kept her from coming in and grabbing the textbooks she had desperately needed. 

After that, Brent lugged her around all over the place. To the gigs he played with his shitty band. To the football games where she drank with his friends as they tailgated and cleverly avoided campus police by hiding in a corner under the Math and Sciences building. It was so easy being with Brent, because he told her want he wanted her to do. You’re so fucking hot, babe, when you wear your hair long. This is how you smoke a joint, Dana baby. You need to chill out in class, baby, you’re just giving me more work to do.

When she caught him cheating on her with another girl in their class, she’d been wearing his leather jacket, and wrenching it off to throw it at him mid thrust had felt like peeling off her own skin. She was heartbroken, but more than that she was  _humiliated_. All she wanted to do was rub him off of her, forget she ever met him. She never wanted another cigarette, never wanted another bad grade, never wanted to make herself  _small_  to let a man feel  _big._

But there  were things she missed. The smell of his leather jacket when he draped it over her shoulders. The throbbing heat of a passionate crowd, the way music felt when it lifted from the ground up. She missed his handwriting, the way his his pen curved around asymptopes, went sideways when writing down functions. She missed his teeth on her neck, her earlobes, her thighs, her nipples. 

She was tipsy, not  _drunk_ , when the group of girlfriends she’d ignored for half a year stumbled by the tattoo parlor, and one of the other girls yelled “I want to get my bellybutton pierced!” Spring break was coming up; everyone had plans but Dana. Then again, she never needed the excuse of a vacation to let herself go wild. 

The whole gaggle of them made their way inside, laughing and talking and pushing the bellybutton girl along as Dana stood quietly at the edge of the crowd. Thinking. Thinking about… pain. About the marks that people left even when they worth so little in the long run. Thinking about Brent, the way he rolled his eyes when she raised her hand, about his stupid, pretty mouth, about his teeth. About his  _teeth_. 

“I want one, too,” she said, and her friends turned to her in surprise. 

When the piercing professional asked her  _where do you want it_ , she didn’t have to think before lifting her shirt, closing her eyes against the whooping laughter of everyone in the shop. There was paperwork to sign, and she was led to a back room for privacy, where she again lifted her shirt and unclasped her bra. 

She looked at the ceiling while the piercer clamped her nipple, unflinching. It felt good, a little sting of pleasure trailing from her nipple to her clit, and she hoped her roommate would be out with her boyfriend when she got home. The pleasure quickly turned from a harmless sting to a smothering haze when the needle came straight through, clean, and she moaned aloud and arched her back like she was the only one in the room. The professional calmed her, mistaking her agony for real agony, letting her breathing come back to normal before sliding in the barbell and applying pressure. When the bleeding stopped, a bandage was placed over her tender flesh and the brand new piece of metal. Her thighs ached. Slipped together under her tight black skirt. 

She wanted to go home. Now. By herself. She would make herself come. She would buy her own leather jacket. There would always be music, and she would do her own math. She would be okay. 


End file.
